[aegisrising]

‿̩͙‿ ༺ slip n' slide

or;    you dedicate yourself to the study of dean's back

⊱ warnings / tags: gn!reader, pre-established relationship, back kisses, vulnerable dean, tooth-rotting intimacy, fluff, faint allusions to smut

‿̩͙‿ ༺

Dean’s astray.

He can’t get a hold of himself. He’s sure of it, because it should be easy to roll sideways and let you fall onto the mattress, and when you gawk, to flash you a smile and say he can’t have you crushing one of his best assets. He’ll get an unimpressed look, but you’ll move to sit beside him and pick up the conversation in a preferably more normal way. 

But what’s left of his will seems to be limp, dissolving away with the rest of his body. 

You’re talking. One of your theories for the case. The only remaining tether he has to the real world, which is taking him his darndest to parse through and conjure up answers to so you’ll keep going. If you stop, his senses will take over, and they’re already clamoring for him to just let go and feel this. He frowns into the pillow as another soft quake races down the pathway of his spine, trailing after careful fingers until your palm is just inches from his waistband. The chill of your skin brings down the burn of the sun to a gentler warmth. You say something about secondary locations that slips right past him.

He’s gone loony. You’re just theorizing, and he’s dying, hyperconscious of the sound of your breathing, the way your weight is pressing on top of his ass, your thighs caging him in. Your hands; mixing in with his warmth, switching between flat presses and featherlight traces – ever so gentle. 

"--y’s and a good old stake, shouldn’t be too hard for us," is the only bit he hears when your voice comes back, and his eyes fly open in alarm. 

“Huh? Uh– yeah,” he clears his throat. Totally listening. He shouldn’t have taken off his shirt. “‘Course it won’t. We’ve ganked worse bastards.”

"Well, yeah. But these things can be a little sly."

“Mmh,” he grunts. “Nothin’ we can’t handle.”

He’s back to merging with his pillow, but he can sense the smile on your face. You’ve sat back up to simply rest your palms against the dips of his waist, eyes mapping out each plane, bruise, scar, and freckle into some little constellation of its own. 

It’s pretty, and sort of a representative picture of Dean. Not the first time you’re graced with the sight, but not like this – hands poring over his every mark of skin, which you’ve always longed to do but deemed a long shot. Not that he’s shy – this is Dean, but you knew it was simply a sort of territory he tended to leave uncharted, and you were the last thing from a pushover. Not with him, and not when it took so much to even get here. 

He seems to be letting you have it right now, though. 

You’d draw it; if you could ask as such without pushing your luck. You’re still half-expecting Dean to clamber out of your grip any second, so while he’s not actively wrestling for an out, you could commit this to memory. 

You’re being awfully quiet. 

Dean has half the mind to turn over and figure out why the hell that is, but that position would make you slip off of him just as he’s starting to warm up to his newfound fate, and he doesn’t think he can manage a redo. 

He lets out a muffled grumble of your name, and you hum, thumb tapping against him.

“Keep talkin’.”

You blink, having at some point surmised his acceptance as exhaustion. Guess you’ll have to scratch that. 

“Oh,” you murmur, suppressing a smile. “Okay. Um..” 

You look back down and pause over a particularly jagged line near his left shoulder blade – a knife wound from a ghoul attack you helped patch up. That was the very first time he’d given in to your aid. Your lips twitch, gently pressing it. 

"You remember this?" 

"Yeah," he said, angling his face sideways. "Got that in Nebraska. Stung like a bitch.”

You can’t help but sneer as you trace the scar. “Sam had to give up his new flannel,” you remind him – just because you know Sam still gives him shit for it – and it pulls a frown out of him. “And you still bled onto the carseats. Funny that you seemed pretty convinced you could’ve stitched it yourself.”

Dean scoffs, no matter that it had taken him a full hour just to get the needle through. Still. How many people can say the same? 

“Because I could. I think I know what I can and can’t do, sweetheart, and that was on–”

“Apparently not.”

His eyes shoot open, and he cranes his neck enough to be met with your smug smile. He returns it with a sardonic one. “Hilarious,” he mutters before plopping back down – not his fault, your free hand started stroking his hip. “I could’ve. Only reason I let you do it was ‘cause you and Sammy wouldn’t stop pestering me ‘bout it.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” 

Dean’s rebuttals die at the tip of his tongue when you press a kiss over the old wound – immediately stiffening under you – and you freeze, hands flying to your sides in an instant. “Shit– uh.” Great. Good going, idiot. Of all the times you’ve been able to hold back,  this is the one you can’t manage?

“Sorry, I wasn’t–”

“Do that again.”

You must be hearing things. 

The surprise is palpable as your gaze snaps down to him, and Dean swallows. 

“What?”       

“....Do that again,” he says the words quietly. A mumble against cotton, looking almost bashful. 

You remember then that this is much tougher for him than you. It should’ve scared him off. You’ve got a dozen reasons why. None of which supported the plausibility that he’d be willing to try. But here you are. 

Your mouth snaps shut into a smile. Dean’s fingers twitch, about to ask why you’ve gone so silent again when he feels a peck on the same scar from earlier. 

He feels you shift your weight before pressing another tentative kiss to its left.

“Is that okay?” 

“..Yeah.”

Only then do you continue. His eyes flutter shut as you pepper more upon his shoulders. Across, along, then moving down. You don’t skip a thing: old burns, scratches, cuts. Every freckle, mole, and sunspot.

At some point, Dean lets himself go. 

It’s difficult not to. Not when you’re taking your sweet sweet time, particularly with the scars. When a whine isn’t jumping to his throat, he makes sure to get a breath in on the intervals you place before every kiss – at times with a run of your thumb – as if recalling the memories associated with it, and wondering at the ones you hadn’t been there for. 

This doesn’t mean it was easy. 

He’s spent the past hour doing the opposite, after all, afraid of what it would do if he gave in – because this is a tenderness he’s longed for all his life, rushing over him on a random Thursday afternoon with no warning. 

“Jesus,” he breathes out, gripping the sheets beneath him when you find your way back to his spine – languid, lingering kisses along where it curved. You had to crawl down – chest now propped on the back of his thighs, so the hand resting on his loin becomes his new tether. This time, he feels your smile when it curls up against him. 

He doesn’t get why you’re like that with him. Gentle, in your quieter moments together. Eager, even with the most mundane, tedious shit he could possibly think of. Stakeouts, beer runs, waiting for Sam, sitting on the sink when he shits. His friggin back. 

Well. You do like him. That’s why he’s here. That’s why you’re here, but sometimes he doesn’t get that part either. Because you seem to almost savor Dean. And he’s still learning how to take without knocking anything over. 

His last spot a little further below, except this one wasn’t exactly battle-bourne. He feels you kiss where he’s pretty sure your teeth bared into him a couple nights ago. 

You pat it with a contented hum, sounding way too pleased with yourself. “Still holding up.”

“‘m still gonna get you back for that.”

A snort. “And I’m still waiting,” you say, moving back up to lay atop his slack figure and rest your cheek close to his shoulder. Which part he’s groaning about, you’re not sure. Both of you seem too content to care. 

“Do you really still think you could’ve sutured yourself that day?”

“What, the Nebraska thing?” he huffs, pulling at the bedsheets. “Yeah. I told ya, I was halfway through m’first stitch when y’an Sam came barreling in.”

You smirk. “You were flailing around like a highschooler with gum on his back.”

“At least gum’d be easier to get off my back.”

“And yet you didn’t when you had the exact, literal chance.”

The headboard receives his unimpressed glower. 

You know something’s wrong when he doesn’t jab back, but then Dean moves. You’re tossed to the mattress with a yelp, smugness wiped clean off your face, mirrored instead on the face of a towering Dean. 

He raises a brow as you catch your breath. “Looks like you spoke too soon, huh?”

“Not really. That was a reactive decision, kind of a little late for it to pr–”

Because you’ll drag this into a debate for your own cruel fun, Dean stops you with a kiss. You melt into it all the same, even if your grin refuses to cease – thankfully, it spurs him on. 

“You’re a fucking pain,” he says into your mouth, pulling away only to press a kiss to your temple. “You know that?”

“I revel in that fact, actually.”

Your grin only widens when he scoffs. 

One of these days, he’ll muck up the nerve to tell you to at least warn a man before you do things like that, or say that he doesn’t revel in that fact. 

For now, he’ll let his face slip into the crook of your neck and let your hands lull him to sleep. 

｡𓃉 a/n: i. (crawling through the dirt) fi..nally .. (wheeze of agony) got it done . dean's back is so smooth and clean in the show and to that i holler in objection. likely for the same understandable reason they didn't end up giving him tattoos but. still. enjoy the sprinkles of sub!dean.

[lunexiax]

all the nights (and the days too) ⭒ dean winchester

pairing: dean winchester x f!reader

summary: You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?)

warnings: 18+ mdni! smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, dumbification, hella dirty talk from dean), miscommunication final boss, kinda fwb but they are very in love, jealousy on both sides, hurt / comfort, cursing, sad dean, no use of y/n, light mentions of alcohol, gonna be honest with u guys this is angsty as hell but i kiss it better i promise <3

word count: 11.8k words

a/n: i love the spn fandom. you guys were so nice about my first dean fic. here's another. i hope you like this one just as much :)

You didn’t think you would ever see this again. Maybe that was naive of you - you know about Dean’s reputation and his history. But things had been so steady for the last few months. He seemed ready.

Obviously not, though, because Dean is flirting. 

And not with you. 

He’s got one arm leaned up against the bar, that cheeky lopsided grin plastered across his face. When he first approached the busty blonde in the leopard print, you had thought - hoped - that maybe he was just asking around to see if anyone knew anything about the killings that had been taking place for the last week in this stupid town. The town you are hating more every second you have to watch your not-boyfriend flirt and laugh with someone else. 

But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.

She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.

You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.

You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.

You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.

Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.

“Get you a drink?”

You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.

“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.

“One you actually like.”

You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.

He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.

When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals. 

“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.

“Just passing through.”

“Where you headed?”

“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”

He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”

“Yeah.”

He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”

He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.

“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”

“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”

You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.

“Do they know who did it?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.

“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”

He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”

You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean. 

And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.

“Buy you another?” 

You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.

“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.

Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”

You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.

You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.

“We’re going,” he says, voice flat. 

You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.

A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.

“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”

You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.

You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time. 

There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him. 

You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.

“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”

Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse. 

“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead. 

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.

You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed. 

The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.

The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.

Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams. 

You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.

The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.

You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking. 

Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.

No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.

You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.

You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.

Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.

When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.

When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight. 

You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.

You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.

You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up. 

Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.

Whatever. Not your problem anymore.

The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face. 

“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”

His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head. 

Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.

“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.

“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”

Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow.  You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower. 

“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.

“I can see that.”

“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”

You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night? 

Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things. 

What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.

The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.

You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”

Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”

“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”

You step past him before he has time to react. 

The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower. 

He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.

Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.

“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.

“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”

You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.

“What now?”

“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”

“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”

He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”

Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”

“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.

“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”

“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”

You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”

He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”

“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”

He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”

You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.

You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin. 

He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.

The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.

“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”

His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”

“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”

“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”

You frown. “You stayed up all night?”

“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”

You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.

“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.

Dean didn't sleep again last night. 

He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off. 

You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.

Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.

“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.

“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”

Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.

You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.

“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”

Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.

You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.

“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.

“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”

“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”

Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.” 

Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.

“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.

No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.

Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”

“I know,” you say.

“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”

“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”

He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat. 

Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him. 

But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you. 

You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.

You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention. 

“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.

But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.

It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality. 

You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping. 

He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know. 

He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like. 

He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’. 

He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this. 

In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.

He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.

But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.

There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.

This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses. 

Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.

He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.

Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.

But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.

He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable. 

Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like. 

So it’s best not to know.

You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.

He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.

But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.

So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.

Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.

Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.

But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.

The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.

“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.

“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”

“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.

“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.

Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.

“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”

You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.

“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.

Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.

You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”

Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.

“What does that mean?” you ask softly.

“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.

“You still there?” Dean probes gently.

“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”

You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”

There is another stretch of silence.

“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”

Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.

“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”

You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.

“The woman, Dean.”

“What woman?”

“There’s been more than one?”

You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.

“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”

Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.

“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”

Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.

“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”

You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.

“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”

“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.

“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”

You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.

“What the hell are you-” you start.

“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”

You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.

“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”

“What smile?”

You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”

Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.

“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.

“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”

“Oh.”

There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.

“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”

You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.

“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”

“Slow down, angel-”

“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”

“Sweetheart.”

You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”

You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”

He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.

He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.

Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.

SAM: Gross. SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.

You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.

You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.

For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest. 

Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.

“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”

The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.

He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.

“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.

“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.

“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.

It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.

He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.

“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.

You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.

“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.

“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”

He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.

But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.

“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”

Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump. 

“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”

You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile. 

“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.

You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.

But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.

“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”

He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.

“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”

That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”

If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.

The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”

You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.

“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”

When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.

You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.

He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?” “Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.

“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.

Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you. 

You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.

Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.

You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.

“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.

“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.

“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”

Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.

“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.

“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.

He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.

“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”

Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.

“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.

“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”

“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.

He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin. 

He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.

It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day. 

“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”

His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.

“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”

You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.

“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”

He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.

He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.

“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”

You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.

You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.

When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.

“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.

a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni

°𓏲⋆🌿. Be added to my taglist! .🌿⋆𓏲°

[magpie1817]

blah blah blah proper name, place name , back story stuff …. like sure whatever you say handsome 🥰

[noniesgummysmile]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

choi seungcheol. you have brought life to my dreams.

[wooziloves]

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL WINTER SOLDIER COSPLAY IM GOING TO PASS OUT?????

[selenethings]

Back on Tumblr just for this

[soyongdorigyu]

Adore U || csc

TITLE: Adore U

PAIRING: Choi Seungcheol x Reader

TAGS: Gym AU, Fluff, Strangers to Lovers, Oblivious/Obvious, Only One Bed Trope, An Attempt at Comedy

WARNINGS: Explicit Language, Smut (18+, MDNI, specific warnings are at the end of the post), Mentions of Alcohol, MC is a pathology resident (histopath you are my worst enemy), MC is shy/quiet (it’s always the quiet ones—), Author has an unhealthy relationship with Cheol’s biceps, Author really really really likes jjajangmyeon (and it shows in her fics LMAO), Seungcheol x The Beach Comeback, Alcohol, Brief Weight mentions

WC: 24.9k

SUMMARY: Choi Seungcheol thinks it’s time to finally settle down, but after numerous failed dates, he’s starting to think that he might not find the one. However, a chance encounter with a shy, pretty stranger has him quickly realizing that maybe he was just looking too far. What a shame all his advances seem to be flying over your head.

A/N: Set in the same universe as Pretty U, but no need to read that to understand this. There is literally zero angst in this (I’m so sorry angst girlies).

“Thanks for dinner. Call me whenever or when we’re up for date number two, okay?” The woman—Seungcheol can’t even remember her name—presses a kiss on his cheek as she gets out of his car, and Seungcheol only gives her a smile that he hopes looks genuine. Sad to say that Seungcheol probably would not be calling her whenever or ever, really.

She’s nice, pretty, a model slash influencer that any man with functioning eyes would fight for to have on their arm. There’s no denying that she’s beautiful, but that’s as far as Seungcheol would go in terms of compliments. They didn’t have chemistry. How could they when Jisoo? Jiwoo?—the woman only seemed interested in getting to know the depth of Seungcheol’s pockets rather than the depth of his character and the complexity of who he was?

Date two would not be happening at all.

It’s another failure, and if Seungcheol wasn’t so determined to finally do things right, he probably would’ve headed to the closest bar or club to pick up some pretty woman that had trouble in her eyes and commitment out of sight. Unfortunately, Seungcheol’s days of fucking around are over, and the need for something genuine was greater than the desire for fleeting comfort.

Seungcheol would have to settle for the next best thing to get the frustration out of his system: the gym.

It’s a good thing Mingyu invited him for a pull day session today because Seungcheol was ready to go heavy—

The screen of Seuncheol’s phone lights up, and he’s quick to read the message, hands still on the wheel and stick. The last thing he needed was to get arrested for distracted driving after a shitty date with a woman who only saw him as a walking ATM machine. 

[Mingyu]: Hyung I can’t make it today [Mingyu]: Boyfriend duties :P

Asshole, Seungcheol thinks as he processes the words. Of course Kim Mingyu, loverboy of the century, was going to ditch Seungcheol without a second thought when forced to choose between his best friend and his girlfriend. Seungcheol gets it, he’d do the same, but fuck was the timing shit.

Seungcheol takes advantage of the red light. It’s still illegal, but at least he feels a little less unethical than he would if he had whipped his phone out mid-drive.

[Seungcheol]: I hope your muscles shrink [Mingyu]: Boyfriend duties keep my muscles big  [Mingyu]: Not that you’d know ㅋㅋ [Seungcheol]: 🖕🖕🖕

Seungcheol doesn’t bother texting after that, choosing to focus all his attention on driving as fast as he can—within speed limits—to C&K Fitness Center before it closes. It’s not that big of a concern considering that he and Mingyu owned the gym, but he didn’t want to keep the employees behind later than usual.

When Seungcheol arrives at C&K Fitness Center, he’s quick to get the bag he keeps in the backseat before practically stomping his way into the gym. Youngmi, the ever-lovely (she’s a menace, really) receptionist he and Mingyu hired, is quick to snort at the poorly-concealed scowl on Seungcheol’s face.

“I’m guessing the date didn’t go well?” Youngmi says, and there’s a mix of pity and amusement in her tone that had Seungcheol’s frown deepening.

“Do you really not know anyone?” Seungcheol practically begs. Maybe he needed to stop getting his male friends to connect him with women. Maybe he’d be more successful if a woman was the one doing the matchmaking.

“All the women I know are looking for women too,” Youngmi shrugs. “You aren’t exactly their type.”

“Damn it,” Seungcheol groans as he runs a hand frustratedly through his hair. “Thanks anyway.”

“I’ll let you know if my girlfriend knows anyone, boss,” Youngmi waves as Seungcheol heads to the changing rooms. 

“Thanks,” Seungcheol sighs, defeated.

The gym is relatively empty, with only two or three moving bodies scattered through the wide expanse of rubber and metal. Relief settles in Seungcheol’s form knowing that he was likely to be tapped for help today. Don’t get him wrong, he liked helping people, but he was already having a shitty day, and the only thing he wanted to do was lift until the burn of his muscles were greater than the frustration in his veins.

Seungcheol grabs a resistance band for his warm-up, eyes trained on his form in the mirror as he stretches the band as far as he can. Once he wraps up with that, he follows it up with a few more stretches before heading to the lat pulldown machine. 

The burn is great. Seungcheol can feel the way his muscles relax and contract with every pull of the handles, and some part of him feels like the day is less of a failure with how well he’s lifting the weight close to his PR. To an outsider, he probably looks insane rawdogging his lifts with nothing but the hum of the AC and the low volume of the gym music to keep him occupied, but he doesn’t really mind.

Who hurt you? Is probably what they’d ask if Seungcheol didn’t look so intimidating.

With a huff, Seungcheol sets the weight down for a short break. This was one of Seungcheol’s favorite parts whenever he was working out: the silence and the burn after a set well done. Who cares if Mingyu’s out being lovey dovey with his girlfriend? Seungcheol was lifting so much heavier than that slacker now. It’s the envy speaking, Seungcheol knows, but can you really blame him when all Mingyu ever posts about is how fucking lovesick he was while Seungcheol remained painfully single—

“Excuse me?” The soft voice coupled by a light tap on his shoulder is quick to snap Seungcheol out from his thoughts.

Quickly, he looks to the side, an accommodating smile plastered onto his face to replace the scowl he was previously sporting.

“Yes?” Seungcheol asks, and when his eyes take the person in, his brain is quick to start firing signals for an emergency response. All the little workers in his head were probably scrambling to get their shit together while Seungcheol tried to keep a nonchalant facade.

The woman in front of him is familiar enough to have been someone he probably constantly sees from the corner of his eye, but there’s a sense of unfamiliarity in Seungcheol that tells him that he probably never took the time to fully look at her. He’s starting to think that maybe he should have done it sooner because wow—

She looks nice.

(Seungcheol wasn’t the best at articulating his words when it came to women that interested him, so please do forgive him).

“Is it okay if you spot me? I’m kind of trying to go heavier today,” You say, a little shy, a little uncertain, and Seungcheol would be lying if he said that it wasn’t stirring something awake inside him. “It’s totally fine if you can’t—“

“No, I’d love to help,” Seungcheol smiles in a way that he hopes is reassuring as he stands from the pulldown machine. “What exercise?”

“Bench press,” You reply as you begin walking towards where you’ve set up the bar and the plates on the rack of a bench. “It’s push day today.”

“Nice,” Seungcheol comments casually, and he resists the urge to cringe. Nice? Really? That’s the best he can say? “Do you lift here often?”

“MWF,” You reply politely with a smile, and Seungcheol can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t taken the time to talk to you before. He’s sure he’s talked to everyone here at least once. “Mingyu and his girlfriend usually spot me, but they aren’t here today.”

Of course that asshole knew you. That extrovert loved getting to know people.

“They’re on a date,” Seungcheol says as he steps behind the bar, watching with curious eyes as you sit on the bench and lay down. “I never caught your name, by the way.”

“It’s Y/N,” You smile at him from where you’re lying down, and Seungcheol swears there was a light tickle in his chest when you did it. Was he palpitating right now? Is that what was happening? “You’re Seungcheol, right? Mingyu talks a lot about you.”

“Mingyu talks a lot is enough of a sentence,” Seungcheol snorts, and something akin to pride blooms in his chest when you laugh. “Just call me Cheol, Seungcheol is too formal.”

“If you say so,” You reply as you adjust your grip in the bar. Seungcheol helps you unrack it before stepping back to give you the space to do your lift. “My life is in your hands.”

Seungcheol finds himself chuckling at your words, eyes never tearing from your form as you lift and bring the bar down to your chest. “I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

Your first first few reps are effortless, and Seungcheol almost feels like you don’t actually need him around. You’re doing well all on your own. Not wanting to feel useless, Seungcheol decides to just cheer you on. “Nice form, that’s it.”

The corners of your lips tug into a soft smile, and it’s one that Seungcheol is quick to reflect with a grin of his own. This is the other part of the gym that Seungcheol likes, the community, the instant click with strangers over shared hobbies. 

It’s around your eighth rep that Seungcheol notices the slight quiver in your arms, and he’s quick to take a tiny step forward. You’re doing fine, but Seungcheol knew it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Come on, push—that’s it,” Seungcheol beams with pride when you make it through a particularly shaky set. “You got one more in you. Get that bar down.”

“I don’t,” You complain, but you don’t rerack the bar. 

Seungcheol shakes his head. “You do, come on.”

And Seuncheol’s right because you’re able to do one more rep, albeit with gritted teeth and shaky limbs.

“I told you you had one more,” Seungcheol says smugly as he helps you rack the bar. When you sit up, Seungcheol raises a hand, and you’re quick to give him a high five and a thanks. Seungcheol has to will himself to ignore the buzzing in his palm. “How many more sets do you have?”

“That’s my last for today,” You reply before bringing the opening of your bottle to your lips, throat bobbing up and down quickly at the speed you were downing the water. 

Seungcheol can’t help but feel a teeny tiny bit—extremely—disappointed that your interaction would have to be cut short.

“Fair, it is getting late,” Seungcheol says as he looks at the clock on the wall that reads 8:00 PM, two hours from closing. Seungcheol’s itching to ask what time you usually drop by, but he feels like that’s too forward of a question for someone you just met. “I’ll see you around then. I’d be happy to spot you again.”

“Thanks, Cheol,” Your smile is reserved, but it’s there. “I’ll get going. Happy lifting.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” Seungcheol says, and he can’t help but feel like the name rolls a little too well off his tongue.

Why the fuck had he not seen you before?

The first thing Seungcheol does when he gets home isn’t to eat his post-workout meal and to shower right after like he usually does. He breaks routine by pulling out his phone and texting Mingyu who’s probably sleeping or…getting cardio done.

Seungcheol has a feeling it’s the latter, but he doesn’t give a shit.

[Seungcheol]: When is Y/N at the gym?

Simple and straight to the point, Seungcheol was too old for dancing around.

The reply is immediate.

[Mingyu]: L/N Y/N?  [Mingyu]: Why are you suddenly asking me [Mingyu]: Unless… [Seungcheol]: You know why I’m asking so just answer [Mingyu]: ㅋㅋㅋ [Mingyu]: It’s just a little unexpected considering your type [Mingyu]: Let me ask the gf, she knows Y/N’s schedule better

Seungcheol waits, fingers tapping impatiently at the wood of his dining table as he stares at the three dots popping up and disappearing on his screen.

[Mingyu]: 6-8 pm MW, 7-9 pm on F [Mingyu]: It’s an estimate though

Seungcheol commits all of it to memory. He doesn’t know why he’s so interested, but he doesn’t really have anything to lose so why the hell not? You’re pretty, and it wouldn’t hurt trying to get to know the people in his gym. Plus, it could just be a fleeting interest, so it’s not really that deep. It’ll probably be gone in a few days, and Seungcheol may just find himself with a new friend.

(Sure, tell yourself that, the voice in his head practically taunts.)

[Seungcheol]: Thanks [Mingyu]: No prob hyung [Mingyu]: She’s really nice so don’t be too rough [Seungcheol]: ?? [Mingyu]: I meant your personality [Mingyu]: But that too ig ;) [Seungcheol]: Freak [Mingyu]: The pot calling the kettle black </3 [Mingyu]: Gtg hyung, boyfriend duties [Mingyu]: Hoping you relate soon ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

Seungcheol doesn’t even bother dignifying Mingyu’s teasing remark with a response. He loves that man like a brother, but sometimes he just wanted to throttle him. Which is, honestly, accurate for sibling relationships, but Seungcheol doesn’t dwell on it.

He had something else to think about.

In the following week, Seungcheol goes to the gym for seven days straight. It’s something that leaves Youngmi puzzled and Mingyu giving him a knowing, teasing look every time their eyes meet. Only Mingyu knew Seungcheol’s agenda of wanting to cross paths with you.

However, Seungcheol doesn’t approach you, he just observes. It’s a little creepy, Seungcheol thinks, but in his defense, he was just curious. He’s learnt from Mingyu that you’ve been lifting at the gym for almost a year, so it was a little odd that he never fully registered your presence. The longer Seungcheol observed, however, the more he realized why your paths never fully crossed.

You’re quiet, unassuming. You clean the equipment before and after every use, stack the plates dutifully like you were getting paid for it, and you only ever talk when someone else initiates conversation. Nine times out of 10, it’s either Mingyu or his girlfriend. The other one out of 10 is just other gymgoers asking if you’re almost done with the equipment or polite, short-lived conversations.

It’s cute, Seungcheol thinks, the way you seem to be in your own world. It’s become part of his routine to covertly watch your form bustling around in the gym as you go through your sets. For someone so quiet, your facial expressions surely had a lot to say, and Seungcheol finds that his favorite expression is the one you sport whenever you’re deep in thought while calculating the total weight of the plates, brows furrowed and pout light. 

It’s a good thing you haven’t caught on to the way Seungcheol stares at you from across the gym.

Contrary to his initial belief, Seungcheol’s interest does not die after a few days. The itch, the need to get to know you persists even after one week has passed, and Seungcheol decides that he’s done enough staring and wondering from afar.

Seungcheol knows what he wants, and what he wants is you.

—

Fridays are for leg days.

It’s something you’ve had to learn painfully after doing one leg day session on a Monday and spending the rest of the week feeling like you just got run over by a truck. It’s still a bad idea, considering that you spent your weekends walking or jogging, but it was better than going to the lab with aching legs. Hunching over the microscope almost the entire day was an occupational hazard you did not want to aggravate with a poorly-timed workout.

Honestly, this gym thing wasn’t even supposed to be serious, but somehow you found yourself grinding your way through it anyway. When people ask you why you suddenly had an interest in the gym, you’re quick to tell them that muscles are good for longevity. You don’t tell them that you may have seen a really, really, really handsome guy with the most scrumptious biceps walk into the gym, prompting you to go back to said gym to sign up for a membership just to see him again.

You’d be setting feminism back by hundreds of years by saying that out loud.

What kind of self-respecting woman with a successful career in pathology would sign up for an expensive gym membership just to get a glimpse of a guy she doesn’t even know? You would. You did.

It’s embarrassing, but you don’t really regret it. Throughout the months you’ve been lifting at C&K, you’ve met many wonderful people, and not to be presumptuous, but you’ve definitely started feeling and looking a lot more toned after working your ass off. If you were going to the gym just to see a man, then you might as well just get hot and healthy in the process. You had eye candy and are becoming eye candy, so it’s a win-win in your book.

What you didn’t expect was to actually interact with your gym crush.

You had resigned to just admiring Seungcheol from afar. He was less talkative compared to the other owner, more reserved. Exactly your type. He has a quiet confidence, and despite the way he keeps to himself most days, there’s an unmistakable domineering energy rolling off his form in waves that has you mentally giggling and kicking your feet.

God, you want that.

Unfortunately, you aren’t the kind of woman who puts herself out there. The only thing you can do is sit and watch while other prettier, more confident women walk up to Seungcheol and make their intentions clear, with some of them even successfully scoring a date. You envied their confidence, really. It’s something you’ve always wished you had. While weren’t a total social recluse, you also wouldn’t go out of your way to seek interaction. 

Tapping Seungcheol for help had been a fluke. You were desperate to finish strong, and he just so happened to be the closest person available. However, you liked to think that it was your way of challenging yourself to go out of your comfort zone.

Thankfully, the interaction went well, and even now, as you’re setting up the bar for squats, you’re still replaying the conversation in your head in HD, the memory so clear it’s almost as if it just happened yesterday. Who cares if that was the only time you ever talked to him after nearly a year of pining from afar? You were expecting not to talk to him at all until your paths permanently diverged, so one conversation is honestly already an achievement—

“Leg day?” 

You jolt in surprise, your grip on the 10 kg plate slacking dangerously. There’s no mistaking who that voice belonged to.

Thankfully, Seungcheol’s reflexes are quick, and he’s able to grab the plate from your hands and push it through the bar. “Easy there, you might hurt yourself.”

“Sorry, you surprised me,” You reply, face flushed from the embarrassment flooding your veins. “But yeah, it’s leg day.”

“Need a spotter?” Seungcheol asks with a smile as he loads the other 10 kg plate on the other side of the bar. It’s unfair how good he looked. The singlet he’s wearing gives you a perfect view of the way his biceps bulge and flex as he adjusts the plate.

“If you don’t mind,” You reply shyly as you position yourself behind the bar. Having a spotter is a little useless considering the fact that the squat rack had spotter arms, but you weren’t about to complain. “Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” Seungcheol waves your concerns off before walking to stand behind you. “How many reps?”

He’s close, close enough for you to feel the light tickle of his breath on your nape. Seungcheol’s eyes bore into yours through the mirror, patiently waiting for a response, and it’s taking everything in you not to roll on the floor and scream your head off from the giddy feeling in your chest.

“This is the last for squats so I’m doing it to failure,” You reply as you step underneath the bar. “Once again, my life is in your hands.”

Seungcheol grins as he gets into position a step or two behind where you are. “Don’t bother worrying when I’m around.”

Fuck, that was so hot? Is this how down bad you’ve become? Basic human decency was getting you going? Seriously?

The 20 kg bar coupled with the numerous plates you’ve stacked onto it is heavy. It’s manageable, but you know that you’re probably going to start struggling after 4-5 reps of this weight. Slowly, you inhale as you squat, core bracing once you’re all the way down and exhaling slowly as you go back up. One down.

You continue, repeating the motions with proper form and breathing as Seungcheol stays closely behind you, legs bent and hands hovering near the bar as he watches you with full attention. Suddenly, your eyes meet his in the mirror, and he’s quick to speak, “Nice form, good breathing.”

You can’t help but feel accomplished.

“That’s it, perfect,” Seungcheol continues praising you as you go through your squats, and honestly, it’s a big help considering the fact that you probably would’ve tapped out two reps ago. “One more rep.”

“I can’t,” You breathe out shakily, hands tightening around the bar as you try to go for another squat. “Too heavy.”

“You can,” Seungcheol says, eyes staring straight into your soul like he’s challenging you to retort. “Come on, give me one more.”

Your mind was definitely not in the gutter. No, not at all! You were definitely not etching the memory of his voice and his words into your brain for future use in a wholly different context. Definitely not.

(Liar.)

Miraculously, you push through one more rep, and Seungcheol has a victorious grin on his face as he helps you rack the bar. Briefly, your arms brush, and it takes everything in you not to squeal and giggle like a schoolgirl.

“Good job,” Seungcheol says, putting his hand up. You’re quick to give him a high-five like you did last time, and god, you’d be lying if the innocent slap of skin against skin didn’t send your heart into a frenzy. Was this going to be a thing? Were you going to keep giving each other high-fives until you can get him to give you a high-five somewhere else—

“Thanks for the spot,” You reply, pushing the thoughts from your head before they become more unhinged. You needed to end this conversation soon before you made a fool of yourself. “I’ll get to my next—“

“What’s your next exercise?” Seungcheol asks, taking a step forward when you move to walk away. It seems like the conversation was not going to be over soon.

You’re short-circuiting, unused to all the attention he’s suddenly giving you. “Leg press.”

“Nice, I was going to do that too,” Seungcheol says. “Wanna take turns?”

“Sure,” You nod. Oh god, you weren’t going to escape him anytime soon, huh? The thought both excited and terrified you.

Seungcheol accompanies you for the rest of your workout, the two of you taking turns on the machines or doing the exercises in sync. It’s filled with lighthearted conversation, Seungcheol giving you a few tips and tricks while helping you out with your form on some of the more challenging exercises.

By the end of it, you think that you may have just gained a new gym buddy.

“Nice workout,” Seungcheol says with a pat to your back before taking a swig of water from his bottle. The touch is light, fleeting, but it sends a zap straight through your body that has you straightening up and avoiding Seungcheol’s gaze. “I might have to keep doing leg days with you from now on.”

“You liked my workout that much?” You ask jokingly before drinking from your own bottle.

“What can I say, it’s efficient,” Seungcheol says with a boyishly handsome grin that has your breath hitching. From this close, you have a clear view of the way his dimples dip, and it’s taking everything in you not to squish his face between your hands and coo. 

“You’re free to join me, if you want to,” You suggest, composed, polite, a stark contrast to the way your brain is currently going through an emergency response protocol.

“Nice. I was scared you wouldn’t offer, and I’d have to say goodbye to my gains” Seungcheol jokes. “Wait, let me give you my number. I think I have paper here somewhere, just a sec…”

Seungcheol pats himself before rummaging through his pockets. You don’t know what overcomes you, but you’re thankful for the boost of confidence it gave that had you pulling out your phone and handing it to him.

“Just type it in,” You say with a small smile, hoping that the calm facade doesn’t give your nerves away. 

Seungcheol takes your phone and types his number. After that, he returns it to you with a grin, “Text or call me whenever. I’d be more than happy to share a few workout tips or answer any questions.”

“Any?” You ask jokingly as you look at the new contact on your phone. ‘Cheol’, it’s just one word but it’s enough to make your brain buffer. It isn’t hitting you now, but you have a feeling that once it does, you would have a hard time getting back up.

“Any,” Seungcheol emphasizes with a smile and a look you can’t quite decipher. The tone, the gaze, it’s all too much, and it has your heart stuttering in your chest. “Get home safely, okay?”

“I will,” You nod before pocketing your phone. “I’ll see you next time, Cheol.”

“Looking forward to it,” Seungcheol replies with a pat to your back, an action that has your heart racing no matter how many times he does it.

Fuck, he was treating you like a bro! You shouldn’t be getting giddy over such an innocent, platonic touch, but you can’t help it. Bros before hoes they say, but you’d like to give a new perspective by saying that maybe bros can become your hoes—

Okay, pause. Breathe.

When you get to your apartment, your mind is still reeling and your heart is still racing. The high from your little couple’s—wow, you’re delusional—workout session seemed to have such a long half-life that even now, you were still buzzing and grinning like an idiot. 

You’re unable to stop yourself from plopping onto the couch and squealing into the pillow like a schoolgirl while you kick your feet aggressively. It’s insane how much that man affected you. He was out here being a great business owner by connecting with his clients, and you’re out here imagining your first date, your wedding, your honeymoon—hell, even your retirement—with him.

Boosted by the memory of Seungcheol’s friendly words and casual touches, you’re quick to whip out your phone and start constructing a text message. 

Hey, just got home—

No, not that. He probably doesn’t care about that. You weren’t a girlfriend updating her boyfriend. You’re an acquaintance slash gym buddy that just happened to have a well-constructed leg day routine.

Had fun today—

No, yikes. It sounded a little too much like you were thanking him for a date. Seungcheol might catch on to how delusional you are if you sent that.

[Y/N]: It’s Y/N. Thanks for joining my workout today.

Formal and damn-near transactional, it was informative and personal while still keeping a boundary. 

You nearly drop your phone when a reply pops up instantly, and you have to stop and physically pinch yourself to make sure that you weren’t dreaming or hallucinating all of it.

[Cheol]: Anytime :)

Fuck, even the way he texted was handsome. That was seriously unfair.

[Cheol]: Are you home already?  [Y/N]: Yes. You? [Cheol]: Good to hear [Cheol]: Yeah, I am. Just making dinner. [Cheol]: sent a photo

Holy fucking shit, was any of this even real?

The photo is innocent. It’s a picture of a frying pan and scrambled eggs on it, but that’s not what you’re looking at. No, definitely not that. Because apart from the eggs, the oil, and the steel, the photo also shows you a clear view of Seungcheol’s forearm as he holds the pan.

Damn it. God damn it—

You scream into the pillow before composing yourself and typing out a reply. Whatever unholy thoughts you had regarding the firm expanse of his forearm were pushed aside in favor being a normal, functioning member of society.

[Y/N]: Looks good!  [Cheol]: It tastes even better :) [Cheol]: Have you eaten?

You were not going to survive this. You were not going to be able to pull yourself out of the trenches that Seungcheol pushed you into. You were staying here indefinitely.

[Y/N]: I haven’t, but I’ll get to it soon. [Cheol]: Get to it then. [Cheol]: You need fuel for muscle-building :) [Y/N]: Okay, Mr. Gym Expert.  [Y/N]: Make sure to eat slowly, it’s better for you. [Y/N]: Eat well.

Eat well? Eat well? Is that really the best you can say? You had zero flirting skills, and it was showing. You almost regret being so caught up in your academics because now you were paying for it.

[Cheol]: Thanks, I will. [Cheol]: Good night, Y/N :)

Fuck, you couldn’t wait for Friday so that you finally had an excuse to talk to Seungcheol again.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait until Friday because the moment you step foot into the gym on Monday evening, Choi Seungcheol is already greeting you with a bright smile and a high-five.

“What’s your split today?” Seungcheol asks, trailing after you as you walk to the more open part of the gym to do your upper body stretches.

“Pull day,” You reply as you grab one of the resistance bands hung on the wall. You don’t miss the way Seungcheol grabs a band of his own.

“Damn, I’m doing push today,” Seungcheol says, and you note that there’s a slight edge of disappointment in his tone as he says it. “Just tap me if you need help, okay?”

“Sure,” You nod with a smile. “I can spot as well if you need me to, but I don’t think I’ll be much help.”

Seungcheol chuckles as he pulls the band taut across his chest before pulling it across his back. “Any help is better than no help, so I might just take you up on that offer.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” You joke as you hang the band on the wall again. “Good luck on your workout. Fighting.”

“You too,” Seungcheol smiles, and you walk off to the pulldown machine before the conversation can progress further.

Some part of you is a little disappointed that Seungcheol didn’t join your workout for today, but you’re also thankful because you don’t think you can handle the sight of him doing pulldowns in a sleeveless shirt. You’d have to start gnawing on the steel of the bars or have someone muzzle you just to cope.

You’re able to go through all four of your pull day exercises before Seungcheol approaches you with a light tap on your shoulder while you’re in the middle of drinking your water. “Can you spot me?”

Quickly, you close your bottle and nod. “Sure, what exercise?”

“Bench press,” Seungcheol replies, and the memory of your first encounter quickly surfaces in your mind. “My life is in your hands.”

You snort at his lack of originality before matching his grin with one of your own, “I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

Turns out, Seungcheol doesn’t even need you. He powers through his sets like a machine, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s made of steel underneath that fair skin of his. He huffs and grunts with every heavy lift, and honestly, you’re glad he doesn’t actually need your help because you’re extremely distracted by the sight and sound of him. The only time you ever truly involve yourself is when Seungcheol is reracking the bar, and it scares you every time because damn, even with Seungcheol lifting it, you could clearly feel the pull of gravity on those weights.

“Thanks for spotting,” Seungcheol says as he stands up from the bench, and you’re quick to help him remove the plates and set them aside.

“That was all you,” You reply with a shrug before taking another plate. “I didn’t do much.”

“Hey, you’re good at helping me rack,” Seungcheol says with a smile and a nudge to your shoulder with his, an action that had you short-circuiting from the sensation of his bare arm against your bare arm. “Are you done with your workout?”

What Victorian Era shit was this? Why were you so flustered by casual touch? What’s next? Would ankles start freaking you out too?

“Yes,” You nod as you put away the final plate. “I’ll go ahead—“

“Wanna grab dinner?” Seungcheol suddenly cuts you off, a hopeful look in his eyes as he asks. “My treat. To thank you for spotting.”

All the mini-you’s running around in your nervous system HQ are panicking as they rifle through the files in your head. You didn’t have a protocol for this, didn’t have an emergency plan. Despite your delusions, not once did you ever think of how the hell you’d respond if ever Choi Seungcheol asked you to hang out.

“No need!” You quickly say, waving your hands and shaking your head. “It’s nothing, I swear. I didn’t even do anything—“

“I insist,” Seungcheol says. Suddenly, and a little unfairly, he pouts, and your mind is quick to blank. “Please?”

What the fuck?

Who the fuck would be able to resist that?! Seungcheol is attractive, you know that, but in your eyes, he’s always been that manly, dreamy Adonis so this pout—this heartaching, devastatingly adorable pout was definitely not something you expected. It’s so unexpected that you don’t even realize that you’re already nodding.

“Fine,” You say before you can even stop yourself. “But I’m paying for my food.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but he’s quick to shut it. “Okay.”

After the two of you change into cleaner clothes, Seungcheol leads you to a sleek BMW, and even with your little knowledge of your cars, you know that this particular model didn’t come in a price point that was affordable to the general population.

Fuck, maybe you were in the wrong business.

Like a gentleman, Seungcheol walks ahead of you to open the passenger door, and it’s something that has you thanking him softly before settling inside. It’s clear that Seungcheol took good care of the luxurious hunk of metal. You couldn’t spot scratches or dust anywhere in the exterior or the interior.

“Nice car,” You comment when Seungcheol settles in the driver’s seat. 

“Thanks, I got it last year,” Seungcheol says before starting the engine and backing out of the parking spot. “Do you like cars?”

“Not really,” You reply, eyes trained on the way Seungcheol steers the wheel with one hand while the other hand held onto your seat. “I don’t drive anyway, so it’s impractical to get a car.”

“Why not?” Seungcheol asks, removing his hand from the seat to move the stick. “Never learned?”

“I have a license,” You clarify. “But driving’s too stressful.”

“Ah,” Seungcheol nods before a teasing grin makes its way onto his face as he drives. “Nothing wrong with being a passenger princess.”

You nearly choke on your spit at his words. “Yah, it’s not my fault people on the road are insane.”

“You’ve got a point,” Seungcheol nods with a laugh. “How do you get around then?”

“I commute,” You reply, eyes trained on the red and white lights in front of you as Seungcheol drives through the city’s busy road. “It can get crowded, but it’s still less stressful.”

“Your boyfriend doesn’t drive you around?” Seungcheol asks casually, eyes locked onto the road like he didn’t just send you spiraling with one question.

What?

A look of disbelief settles onto your face, and you’re quick to clarify, “I don’t have a boyfriend. What gave you that idea?”

“Just assumed, sorry,” Seungcheol replies apologetically, but you can see the slowly-growing grin on his face. “Do you like jjajangmyeon?”

The conversation is quick to shift at Seungcheol’s sudden question. You’re thankful for it because you’re not really sure how the conversation would go if Seungcheol decided to pry about your love life. 

“I love jjajangmyeon, actually,” You reply, suddenly excited. You hadn’t eaten it in a while, but god, you could practically taste the sauce on your tongue and feel the noodles between your teeth the moment Seungcheol mentioned it. “Are we getting jjajangmyeon?”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol nods. “There are other dishes, but they’re known for their jjajangmyeon.”

“All the exercise I did is going down the drain,” You sigh, but it’s really not that big of a deal. Diets with extreme restrictions aren’t sustainable anyway. 

Seungcheol only laughs. “Just think of it as bulking.”

“You are so right,” You reply with a grin.

When the two of you arrive, the place is fairly busy. There are a few empty tables, but there’s more than enough people in the tiny restaurant to breathe life and bring noise into the space. It’s casual, friendly, and the farthest thing from intimate.

Aw.

Seungcheol lines up, eyes scanning through the menu plastered up on the wall before turning to look at you, “What do you want?”

His voice is being drowned out, but you’ve done enough lip-reading and ear-straining to understand the words.

“Just jjajangmyeon, please,” You reply, and Seungcheol furrows his brows before taking a step closer.

In a way that’s bad for your heart, Seungcheol brings you closer to him with a hand on your back before leaning down to let you speak straight into his ear. “Sorry, it’s a little noisy. What did you say you wanted?”

“Jjajangmyeon,” You manage to say despite feeling like your heart was about to jump out of your throat from Seungcheol’s proximity, his touch. “I’ll have the jjajangmyeon.”

“Anything else?” Seungcheol asks, turning his head slightly to look you in the eye. His gaze flickers, you’re not sure to where, but it does. “Their chicken is good.”

"Too heavy,” You shake your head, and before you can stop yourself, you continue, “Maybe next time.”

Wow! That was really presumptuous of you to think that this whole dinner situation was going to repeat itself. Good job, you’ve embarrassed yourself yet again.

“Okay, next time then,” Seungcheol nods, and it makes you feel a little less embarrassed about your little slip-up. “Wanna go get a table while I order?”

“Sure,” You reply, and walk off to find an empty table for two. You find that breathing is easier now that Seungcheol wasn’t making your chest feel all funny and ticklish.

Thankfully, the rest of dinner passes by in a lighter fashion. Most of your conversations circled around asking questions back and forth about each other’s lives. Seungcheol, despite your reserved first impression of him, is a great conversationalist, and it’s something that has your guard crumbling down.

“Aw, she’s so cute!” You coo as Seungcheol shows you a picture of his family’s dog on his phone, an adorable Coton de Tulear wearing a pretty pink bow on her head. “Wait, so why is her name Kkuma?”

“I was on a diet when we got her,” Seungcheol says, eyes fond as he scrolls through his album full of the cute little ball of fluff. “Do you wanna meet her? She usually stays with my brother, but he takes her when he comes over.”

“I would love to,” You reply, swiping through Seungcheol’s album to see more of Kkuma and her pretty bows. “Just say the word.”

Most people would consider you reserved, quiet, but the people closest to you would probably beg to differ. It takes a while to get you comfortable, but once you are, you’re suddenly the world’s biggest extrovert, your mouth running itself to talk about every single topic under the sun until the person in front of you just begs you to shut up before their ears bleed. Seungcheol doesn't do that though. He listens, shares, and his openness to whatever conversation you throw his way has your chest blooming with gratitude.

“No way,” Seungcheol shakes his head with a disbelieving laugh after listening to your take. “Pull day is so much better than push day.”

“It is so not,” You’re quick to argue. “I can barely sleep after pull day because my back hurts so much.”

“The ache is satisfying though,” Seungcheol argues back. “I like doing pull days.”

Your eyes flicker to the way his biceps strain against the sleeves of his shirt, and you’re quick to roll your eyes playfully, “I can tell.”

Seungcheol only grins before flexing an arm in a manner that has you crashing out internally, “Good. I work hard for these.”

In return, you listen just as well. You keep your ears peeled and your expressions animated, making sure to hang onto every word and ask whatever burning question you had whenever Seungcheol would share bits and pieces about himself and his interests.

“You’re a League player?” You’re trying to keep your tone as non-judgmental as you can, but you have a feeling that you’re failing because Seungcheol is quick to laugh.

“What’s wrong with that?” Seungcheol asks with an amused smile. 

“Nothing they’re just…” You think of all your gamer friends, your cousins, and safe to say that there’s only one thing they have in common when they’re playing the game. “They’ve got a lot of rage.”

“Oh they do,” Seungcheol nods, laughing. “Do you like playing games?”

“Played COD once,” You reply with a shrug, “Mobile and PC.”

“You act like people there don’t have just as much rage,” Seungcheol says, one thick brow raised in question. “Didn’t think you’d be into that.”

“I’m into a lot of things—“ It’s late when you notice the innuendo in your words and the teasing expression on Seungcheol’s face, and you’re quick to pause and purse your lips when you realize what you just said. “I did not mean it like that.”

Seungcheol only laughs, hands raised in defeat when you throw a feeble glare his way. “Nothing wrong with that.” 

The two of you get so caught up in conversation that by the time you pause your talking, the restaurant is almost empty. That same emptiness is what prompts the two of you to quickly finish your food and rush out of the establishment with sheepish smiles and apologetic glances.

“Where do you live?” Seungcheol asks as he taps on the screen to open the navigation app. 

“You can just drop me off at the station,” You reply, a little embarrassed. “It’s late already.”

“Exactly, it’s late,” Seungcheol says it like he’s scolding you, and honestly? You’re not even upset. If anything, you’re feeling a little…Hot. “I’m not letting you go on your own when it’s this late.”

“Sir, yes sir,” You say jokingly as you type in your address. “Sorry for troubling you.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol says, his smile a little tight as he shifts in the driver’s seat. “I live in the same area, so it’s not even out of the way.”

Oh? That was unexpected. Surely you would’ve noticed if someone this handsome lived in your area, but then again, you barely go out of your apartment unless you’re going to jog, work, or go to the gym. 

The drive, much like the little dinner date—you know you’re delusional—you had, is full of casual conversation. It’s a little strange how comfortable you are around him, but you liked to think that maybe it was because you spent practically a year just admiring him from afar. If anything, the question you should be asking is why he seemed comfortable around you. You don’t dwell on it though, too happy about the situation to wonder about the logistics and the technicalities of it all.

When you reach your apartment, you’re quick to unbuckle your seat and sling your bag on your shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

“I invited you, it’s the least I can do,” Seungcheol replies with a smile. “I’ll try to bring you home earlier next time.”

Next time? You’re not sure if he’s teasing you for your slip-up earlier or being genuine, but you don’t really mind. You liked the sound of next time.

“Good night, Cheol,” You say as you open the car door and step out.

“Good night, Y/N,” Seungcheol replies before you gently close the door.

Seungcheol’s car remains parked on the road as you walk to the door of your apartment. It’s only when you've shut the door behind you that you hear his car come to life as he drives off.

It’s a little sweet, you think. Choi Seungcheol must be one hell of a boyfriend if he treated his friends with this much thoughtfulness. Honestly speaking, you’re a little jealous of the woman that would be getting that treatment, but it isn’t your place. You’re just a woman with a crush at her big age without the courage to seize what you want in fear of rejection.

You’d rather live with the what if’s than be rejected outright, honestly. The what if’s left room for uncertainty, and uncertainty left room for hope. Rejection, on the other hand, has finality. It doesn’t give hope the space to blossom, and honestly, you’d rather live with regret than without hope.

Regret haunts, but hopelessness halts.

However, you don’t let yourself simmer in the thoughts any longer than you already have. You still had work tomorrow, and the more time you spent thinking, the less time you’d have for sleeping. That alone is enough to have you showering quickly and settling into bed.

You’re in the middle of setting your alarm when you get hit with the sudden reminder that you didn’t pay for your half of the meal. It’s late, but you’d rather be rude than be called a freeloader.

Quickly, you whip out your phone and type out a message to Seungcheol.

[Y/N]: I forgot to pay earlier. [Y/N]: What’s your account number?

You don’t expect him to reply given how late it is, but at least you’ve put out your intention to pay—

[Cheol]: I was hoping you wouldn’t remember  [Cheol]: No need to pay, it’s my treat :) [Y/N]: I said I’d pay though. [Y/N]: I’ll ask Mingyu for your details if you don’t tell me [Cheol]: Good luck prying it out of him ㅋㅋ [Cheol]: It’s my treat, just accept it :( [Y/N]: Fine, but let me pay next time. [Cheol]: No promises :) [Cheol]: Go to sleep, you still have work tomorrow. [Y/N]: You’re right, but I will be reopening this argument in the future. [Y/N]: Night, Cheol. [Cheol]: Good night :)

—

Choi Seungcheol is seriously fucked.

He’s staring at the screen of his phone, rereading your conversation with the stupidest smile on his face, and he doesn’t even know he’s doing it until he feels the ache settle into his cheeks. 

Seungcheol has only known you for around two weeks, but he’s out here hanging out with you and talking to you like he’s known you for years. It’s insane how at ease he feels around you. There’s just something about how unassuming, kind, and witty you are that has him hooked, has him hanging onto every word and craving more. It’s made worse by the fact that you’re just so…

Beautiful.

From the gleam of your eye to the curves of your lips, Seungcheol thinks that you’re the kind of beauty that stops time. It’s the kind that has him double-taking, the kind that lures you with a force that only gets stronger the longer you stare.

The worst part of it is that you didn’t seem to be aware of your effect.

You smile, laugh, and speak with a clumsy sort of grace that has Seungcheol’s heart skipping beats and doing cartwheels. He feels like he’s 17 and falling in love for the first time again, and it’s so odd because even that didn’t feel like this. 

It’ll wear off, is what he tells himself as he sets his phone on the nightstand. It’s not like he doesn’t want to be into you. He does, he really does, and he probably really is into you, but he wants to be sure.

Because once he started, he knew there would be no going back.

The next time Seungcheol sees you, it’s Wednesday, and just like Monday, he’s constantly hovering around you like a pesky fly. Even when the two of you have different workout splits, Seungcheol somehow still finds a way to be close to you by choosing the equipment closest to the one you’re using and spending his break between sets talking to you.

It’s exhilarating.

It’s so exhilarating that when you leave, Seungcheol feels like he’s dropping from a high so steep to a crash so deep. He can only sit on the bench, hunched over as he tries to compose himself. Fuck, what were you doing to him?

You were being kind and polite, acting the way a person should in a friendship that was still blooming, and Seungcheol was over here wondering what it would be like to hold your hand and take you on dates by the Han River while he hand-fed you pizza slices.

Yeah, he’s fucking delusional. He knows.

“You’re so obvious, hyung,” Mingyu says as he approaches Seungcheol with a smug grin. “If I had known you’d be this whipped for her, I would’ve introduced you guys sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?” Seungcheol asks with a frown. 

“Didn’t think you’d be into her,” Mingyu shrugs as he bends down and steals Seungcheol’s water bottle before taking a long sip that has Seungcheol’s frown deepening. “Clearly, I assumed wrong.”

Seungcheol takes his bottle back and asks, “Do you think she knows?”

“Nope,” Mingyu replies quickly. “Though I’m surprised she hasn’t caught on.”

Seungcheol knows he’s going to regret asking this, but fuck, he really needed to know, “Do you think I have a chance?”

Mingyu blinks once, twice, thrice, staring at Seungcheol incredulously before he starts laughing his ass off like it's the funniest thing he’s heard in years.

“Dude, holy shit—“ Mingyu’s words cut off into a wheeze before he speaks again, “Hyung, you’re so screwed, I’m already telling you. Oh my god, is this what I was like before? Big fucking yikes god damn—“

“Yah, just answer the question,” Seungcheol says, his patience with Mingyu slowly getting thinner by the second.

Mingyu is quick to compose himself when he catches sight of the glare Seungcheol’s sending his way. He coughs, hitting his chest and clearing his throat before he replies, “You do, I think. You two are practically eye-fucking each other anyway—“

“Yah, Kim Mingyu, watch your mouth,” Seungcheol warns, jaw clenching, and the taller man only raises his arms in surrender. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“Good call,” Mingyu nods. “Good luck to her though. You’re too much to handle sometimes.”

“Damn fucking right I am,” Seungcheol grins.

Mingyu quickly pulls a face of disgust in response, “You’re disgusting.”

“Like you’re any better?” Seungcheol scoffs, brow raised.

“Didn’t say I was.” Mingyu only shrugs with a grin. “Good luck, hyung. Just tell me if you need a wingman.”

“Thanks,” Seungcheol snorts before hitting Mingyu with his towel. “Now stop chatting and finish your set before you lose all your muscles.”

—

Routines are both a blessing and a curse, you think.

You’ve been talking to Seungcheol for three months now, and he’s integrated himself into your life so well that it feels like he’s always been there. Mondays and Wednesdays were spent doing your own workouts and talking to each other during your breaks. Fridays, on the other hand, were spent doing leg days together and getting dinner right after. You like Fridays.

Another addition to your existing routine is Seungcheol driving you home after every gym session. He had insisted on taking you home during a particularly rainy Wednesday night, and the rest was history. It stresses you out sometimes because you can’t help but feel like you’re bothering him, but Seungcheol is always quick to tell you that he really, really doesn’t mind. The man even saying that it puts him at ease knowing that you got home safe.

How sweet (You were going to combust).

A more concerning addition, one you both love and loathe, is befriending a few of Seungcheol’s friends. You had met them during a Friday night dinner with Seungcheol, and they were all so nice and accommodating that it was easy to get comfortable around them. 

Jeonghan could be mischievous, but he’s a great listener that cares for the people around him. Joshua’s the perfect gentleman until you get to know him a little too well and realize that there’s more to him than what meets the eye (in a good way, you swear!). You like talking to them, but you absolutely loathed the change because it made being delusional a little too easy. Encounters with them felt less like a hangout with friends and more of a ‘getting-to-know-your-boyfriend’s-friends’ session. 

It’s not good for your overactive imagination.

The most devastating addition to your routine, however, is the constant texting. On the days you don’t see each other, the mornings before you meet at the gym, the nights after you go to the gym, and the weekends you spend apart, you and Seungcheol are constantly conversing on numerous platforms. It has reached a point where he’s talking to you about gym stuff on your Kakao and while simultaneously discussing the reels you sent him on Instagram. Choi Seungcheol takes up so much space in your world that you’re scared of the void he’ll leave if—when?—the two of you part ways.

The only way you were getting out of this lovestruck trench was if Seungcheol fell in love with you and pulled you out of it to prance into the sun and live happily ever after or if he broke your heart and buried you six feet under that trench.

You are so screwed.

“Y/N, just the person I wanted to see,” comes the frazzled voice of Wen Junhui, your classmate from med school and one of your closest friends. “I’ve got bad news.”

Your first instinct is to look at the clock. It’s 5:00 PM, you’re just waiting for the last few samples to come in, but something about Jun’s expression and words tells you that you aren’t leaving the hospital anytime soon.

“How bad?” You ask, cautiously eyeing Jun as he fidgets and shifts from one foot to the other. “Jun, it’s a Friday, please tell me it’s not that bad.”

“The new lab tech may or may not have dropped a few samples,” Jun says with an apologetic smile that does nothing to ease you. “She’s already making the new slides, but Dr. Na wants all of them read today, so…”

“Stabbing me with a scalpel would’ve been kinder,” You say as you slack against your chair, defeat weighing you down like a sack of rocks. “How long until she’s done?”

“An hour?” Jun says sheepishly. “She didn’t mean to. She’s already on it.”

If Wen Junhui wasn’t so enamored by that lab tech, you swear you would’ve been freaking out more. Mistakes are expected especially when everyone is overworked, but this day has been dragging on for far too long. You feel bad for her, but you can’t help but feel bad for you too.

“You better sit down and help me with all of that,” You frown. However, your phone suddenly buzzing on the desk and lighting up with a familiar name is quick to put a smile on your face.

Jun gives you a knowing look when he sees your face light up, “Is that him?”

“Yes,” You’re quick to reply.

“I’ll be off then,” Jun teases as he starts walking back to the lab. “I better be invited to the wedding.”

“Only if you invite me to your wedding with you-know-who,” You tease, and you internally celebrate when you see the tips of Jun’s ears turn pink.

“I don’t like her!”

“Sure, you don’t,” You snort, waving Jun’s flustered form off before focusing on your phone.

[Cheol]: What do you want for dinner? [Cheol]: Just so I know if I’m going light or heavy for the pre-workout ㅋㅋㅋ

Damn it, you weren’t lifting today.

[Y/N]: I’m not lifting today, sorry. :( [Y/N]: There’s a problem with the samples, so I have to work overtime to fix them. [Cheol]: No need to apologize. That must suck :((( [Cheol]: What time do you get off? [Y/N]: Not sure, probably late. [Y/N]: I’ll be there next week, I swear !! [Cheol]: I’m counting on that :) [Cheol]: Good luck with the samples

The rest of your rotation flies by in shades of pinks and purples as you read and interpret the samples like a machine. However, your efficiency is still nothing in the face of multiple samples, and by the time you finish, it’s 9:00 PM.

You quickly send your reports to Dr. Na, and after that, you’re quick to change out of your scrubs into something more comfortable. Wen Junhui, as usual, stays behind and only gives you a thumbs up as you leave.

Finally free, you think.

Your back hurts and your head is aching, but at least you had the entire day tomorrow to rest. The thought of a quick dinner followed by a cold shower and a soft bed is the only thing powering you as you walk out of the hospital and into the street—

Is that…?

Are you hallucinating?

There’s a familiar car parked on the side of the road, and when your eyes drag across the length of it, you’re quick to realize that there’s an equally familiar form leaning against the car as he scrolls through his phone.

You think it’s a little unfair how effortlessly handsome Seungcheol looks when you’re standing a few meters away from him looking like a drowned rat.

Why was he here?

Almost as if he could sense you, Seungcheol looks up from his phone, and when his eyes land on your shocked form, he’s quick to give you that bright, dimpled, gummy smile that feels like Cupid’s arrows piercing straight through the ventricles of your heart. All the exhaustion in your body is pushed away as a blooming warmth takes its place.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says as he jogs over to you. “Are you done with your shift?”

“Yeah,” You nod, still in disbelief. “Wait, why are you here?”

“Felt like it,” Seungcheol says with a grin like it answers anything. It doesn’t. It just raises more questions. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” You answer as you follow Seungcheol to his car. “How did you know what time I was getting off?”

“I didn’t,” Seungcheol says with a shrug as he opened the passenger door. “I got here at around 8 and just waited.”

Before you can even get embarrassed and complain to Seungcheol about how he didn’t have to do all of this, he’s already shutting your door and walking to the driver’s seat.

“What do you want to eat?” Seungcheol asks as he fixes his seatbelt and shifts the stick. 

“Chicken? Up to you, I’m not really craving anything specific,” You reply, still not able to believe that everything happening was real.

“Chicken it is,” Seungcheol smiles before stepping on the gas and heading off to the closest chicken place he knows.

Seungcheol’s passenger seat isn’t unfamiliar to you. You’ve sat in this same spot so many times that you could probably call it yours. However, the context was never like this. The situation felt too intimate, too personal. 

Maybe you were being delusional, maybe you weren’t, but something about this had your heart racing and your words failing because god—

You needed this.

After a long day where you had no one to count on but yourself, having Seungcheol meeting you at the end of it with a smile and the promise of stability was a relief. It’s unfair because he’s treating you so well to the point that you think you might just have a chance, that he might be doing all of this because he likes you too—

But you refuse to be that delusional.

Choi Seungcheol is driving you insane, and he isn’t even aware of it.

—

Yoon Jeonghan is having the time of his life.

“It’s been five months,” Seungcheol complains, running a hand through his hair exasperatedly as he nurses a glass of beer. “Five months, and she still hasn’t caught on.”

Mingyu’s eyeing Seungcheol with the same kind of amusement that Jeonghan has in his gaze. It’s not often—it’s the first time, in fact—that they get to see Seungcheol this hung over a girl. It’s always been just one night’s and a few months of on and off with Seungcheol, so to see him pining this long and this badly was a treat.

Jeonghan could be recording all of this if Seungcheol’s eyes weren’t so sharp.

“Have you tried confessing?” Jeonghan says before taking a sip from his glass. 

“He hasn’t,” Mingyu scoffs into his own glass. “He’s doing everything but confess.”

Seungcheol shoots a glare towards the taller man before taking another swig from his glass. Frustrated, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking, “I don’t want to scare her off.”

“Yeah, well at this rate you’re going to make her lose interest,” Jeonghan says with a roll of his eyes. “Actions speak louder than words, but Y/N doesn’t really seem like the type to assume things without evidence—“

“What other evidence does she need?” Seungcheol sulks, form deflating. “Am I not being obvious enough?”

“Nope,” Mingyu says. “Talked to the missus, and she said that Y/N thinks you’re just being friendly.”

Jeonghan almost chokes on his beer at that.

So it was that bad, huh?

He thinks Seungcheol’s being a coward by not confessing, but he also understands why Seungcheol hasn’t told you. Seungcheol probably didn’t want to seem like he was befriending you just to date you. That was sleazy, and Jeonghan knows that’s the last impression that Seungcheol wants to give you.

What Jeonghan doesn’t understand is how you still think that Seungcheol’s just being friendly. Surely, you’re suspecting? Surely, you know? Because Jeonghan’s an outsider to this all but even he knows that Seungcheol isn’t just being friendly. He’s absolutely sure that everyone who has had the misfortune of being around Seungcheol while you’re in the room will say that Seungcheol is head over fucking heels in love with your oblivious self.

Seungcheol either looked like he wanted to devote the rest of his life to worshipping the ground you walked on or to take you on the closest surface for everyone to see because the need, the longing, was just too much to leave be. The tension that hangs in the air is always thick when you and Seungcheol are in a single room, and it’s so heavy that Jeonghan has to excuse himself from time to time just to get a break from all the heated looks and longing glances the two of you unknowingly exchange. 

And it’s not even one sided! Jeonghan has only known you for a few months, but he knows that you see Seungcheol as more than a friend. You wouldn’t be smiling at the man like he was your entire world if you didn’t. It’s stupid. All of it is extremely, unbelievably stupid. Seungcheol’s clearly into you, and Jeonghan thinks you’re into him too, so why did all of it have to be so difficult?

You’re both cowards, that’s why.

Jeonghan ought to lock the two of you in a room until you fuck the tension out of your systems, really. If only to save him from the torment of watching the two of you pine like idiots.

“You know she’s into you, right?” Jeonghan suddenly asks. “You know that, right? Right?”

“I don’t want to assume,” Seungcheol grumbles. “But kinda?”

“Wow, you’re both idiots,” Jeonghan complains. “Since when were you this much of a coward?”

“Yeah, hyung,” Mingyu agrees. “What happened to knowing what you want and doing everything to get it? Since when did you beat around the bush?”

“Since I found something I can’t lose,” Seungcheol says, and the two find themselves silenced. 

Well.

Damn.

The air is heavy with Seungcheol’s words. No one knows what to say, so they just let the weight linger. It’s not something they can fix, not something they can address. The only thing they can do is ask for another bucket and pray for the best—

“She texted,” Seungcheol grins.

And just like that, the air gets lighter.

Mingyu and Jeonghan look at each other with knowing looks and teasing grins, relief evident in their forms as the tension clears. Meanwhile, Seungcheol remains blissfully unaware of it all, too busy texting you back with the biggest, dumbest, lovestruck smile on his face.

God damn you had this man whipped.

—

It’s leg day again.

“Are you free next week?” Seungcheol asks as he takes the 10 kg plate from you and loads it onto the bar. After that, he’s quick to hand you one barbell clamp while he squats down and secures the other.

“Yup,” You nod as you bend down and put the clamp through the bar. “Dr. Na wanted us to enjoy the long weekend. Why?”

“Jeonghan and the others are planning a roadtrip to Busan,” Seungcheol answers, and despite the casual look on his face, you can still spot the excitement that lingers on the edges of his words. “Wanna come?”

You’re torn. On one hand, you don’t want to miss out on the opportunity of going on a trip with Seungcheol. The idea of it has the delusional, head over heels part of you screaming that this might just be the final push you need to become something more with the man that you’ve been admiring for so long. On the other hand, you don’t want to impose. The logical, rejection-fearing side of you doesn’t want to be faced with the possibility that Seungcheol might not reciprocate your feelings and that he’s just being polite by inviting you.

“Oh, you should come, Y/N!” Mingyu’s girlfriend is quick to interject in the conversation, and Mingyu who’s following closely behind looks like he’s going to say the same thing. “Please? Save me from these men, my god, I don’t want to be the only woman there.”

Well shit, you can’t argue with that.

But you argue anyway. “I don’t really want to impose.”

“You’re not!” She quickly replies, and Mingyu is quick to nod behind her.

“Dude, you really aren’t,” Mingyu adds. “The more the merrier.”

“They’re right, Y/N,” Seungcheol says, and you can see the beginnings of a pout on his face. You’re going to lose this argument, you can already tell. “Please?”

“Fine,” You give in, and Mingyu’s girlfriend is quick to cheer and pull you into her arms as she rambles about going bikini shopping and drinking by the beach.

Seungcheol grins like he just won something.

When you get home, you find that you’ve already been added to a group chat called ‘Haeundae Hotties’, and you scroll back far enough to find out that it was Jeonghan who had made it and renamed it.

Relief washes over your body when you realize that you’ve met and talked to everyone in this groupchat. You wouldn’t have to go through the awkward phase of introducing yourself and getting to know other people while trying to enjoy the long weekend.

The rest of the night is spent planning and discussing the more logistical part of the little beach-slash-road trip. Jeonghan was assigned to find a hotel, Mingyu and his girlfriend were tasked with finding the best local food spots, Joshua was assigned to look for activities, and you and Seungcheol were assigned to sort out the logistics of traveling. 

It’s exciting. A little nerve-wracking, but exciting. You weren’t always the adventurous kind despite the longing in your bones to explore. The lack of time and opportunity always held you back, and now that you had both, you were brimming with excitement. A week from now, you’d be in Busan with Seungcheol and his friends, people that you now consider your friends too.

You can’t wait.

—

Kim Mingyu thinks you’re it for his hyung.

You’re the girl, the endgame. The one that would ruin Choi Seungcheol for everyone else that came after you—if there would be any—and the one that would probably give Mingyu and Seungcheol liver disease if ever you broke the latter’s heart. He doesn’t think he’s seen his hyung so soft, so gentle, so in love.

Don’t get him wrong, Choi Seungcheol isn’t a rough, brash, mannerless asshole. He’s just… Indifferent. With the few serious and many casual relationships Choi Seungcheol has had, he has always been respectful, reliable. Mingyu’s sure many girls have looked at this man and thought that they were going to spend forever with him—

But Kim Mingyu thinks this is the first time that he’s seen Choi Seungcheol have that look instead.

Even from the backseat, hidden in the shadows of the early morning, Kim Mingyu could practically see the hearts in Seungcheol’s eyes and hear the honey dripping from his tone as he speaks to you. Mingyu is almost tempted to shake his girlfriend awake just to coo about how cute you and Seungcheol were being. 

(He doesn’t, he knows that there are consequences.)

When the first half of the drive is done, Mingyu and his girlfriend are quick to switch with you and Seungcheol, and it’s taking everything in Mingyu not to grin and wiggle his eyebrows at Seungcheol through the rearview mirror. Instead, he exchanges knowing looks with his equally amused girlfriend, away from your and Seungcheol’s line of sight.

The rest of the drive is silent, and Mingyu gets so lost in the lull of it all that he doesn’t notice what’s going on in the back. Luckily, his girlfriend—he’s glad she’s just as nosy—is quick to nudge him and discreetly point to the back with a grin.

Mingyu’s eyes are quick to flicker to the rearview mirror, and what he sees has him wanting to kick his feet and pull out his phone to take a pic.

You’re fast asleep on Seungcheol’s shoulder, and the man looks like he’s turned into stone. Mingyu wonders if his hyung was even breathing at this point with how still he was being. Every once in a while, there’ll be a bump in the road, and Mingyu has to stop himself from giggling like a schoolgirl watching a drama after school when Seungcheol raises a sturdy arm to keep your head pressed against his shoulder.

Smooth little shit.

(Mingyu makes sure to drive over every road bump he can find.)

Mingyu catches Seungcheol’s questioning gaze and raised brow in the rearview mirror, and Mingyu only grins and wiggles his brow in suggestion. Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but there’s a poorly concealed grin on his lips as he keeps your form stable against him—

Click.

The shutter sound of a camera rings softly through the air, and Mingyu’s girlfriend is quick to say ‘oops’ and pocket her phone. Mingyu only gives her a high-five and asks her to send it to him while Seungcheol glares, his hand now pressed over your ear as he hisses at the two to stop giggling before you wake up from the noise.

Kim Mingyu could not wait to put that picture on a slideshow and present said slideshow at a reception where he would be raising a glass in a toast to your and Seungcheol’s forever.

This may just be the start, but Mingyu can already see the end.

—

Choi Seungcheol knows Yoon Jeonghan like the back of his hand.

That’s why when Jeonghan leaves the reception desk and walks across the length of the hotel lobby with a look too apologetic to be sincere, Seungcheol knows something is definitely up.

“There’s a problem with the booking and the hotel’s full so they could only book us three rooms,” Jeonghan sighs, heavy, exaggerated, and Seungcheol’s trying to figure out where the sly man is going with his little theatre act. “It’s enough to accommodate the group, but we’ll have to share.”

“Oh, shucks,” Joshua’s sigh and word choice is equally artificial, practiced, and that’s how Seungcheol knows that it isn’t just Jeonghan who was part of whatever scheme that just took place. “But it’s not that bad? We can room together, Mingyu’s—well, we know where Mingyu’s rooming, and Y/N and Cheol can just share the other room. Problem solved.”

Ah.

Fuck.

“You guys can have whatever room arrangement you want as long as I stay with my baby,” Mingyu says with a lovesick grin as he drapes himself over his girlfriend who looked like she was having the time of her life at the events taking place. The look she gives Jeonghan is too aware, too sly to have been a coincidence.

It’s then that Seungcheol realizes that everyone—save for you and him—was in on this, plotting and scheming like criminals behind your backs.

Assholes.

“Are you fine rooming with Cheol?” Jeonghan asks you, and it’s taking everything Seungcheol not to swear at him. He knows Jeonghan’s behind this room mix-up, but he has nothing to prove it. He’s willing to bet his entire life that this wasn’t the hotel’s fault, and that it was a deliberate move by Yoon et al. to force proximity between you and Seungcheol. It’s a good thing you haven’t caught on, but Seungcheol thinks these fucking idiots are going to ruin everything for him at this rate—

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” You nod with a smile before turning to Seungcheol. He can tell that you’re trying to be cool about it all despite the tinge of apprehension in your gaze. “Are you okay with it though?”

Fuck yes, is what Seungcheol wants to say, but he knows it isn’t appropriate so he only nods with a smile that he hopes is reassuring. “Of course.”

“That’s settled then,” Jeonghan says as he hands the keycards out: one to Joshua, one to Mingyu’s girlfriend, and one to you. “Go get settled first then we’ll have lunch at 12 before going out.”

And with that, everyone splits ways.

“Shall we?” You smile at Seungcheol, and despite his initial annoyance at the entire situation, he finds himself relaxing the moment he catches your gaze.

With a smile, Seungcheol takes your bag and slings it on his shoulder alongside his before speaking, “Lead the way then.”

The walk to the room is light, carefree, and Seungcheol thinks that maybe he was worrying for nothing. You seemed fine with it, so why wouldn’t he be? Plus, it’s not like you two are going to be sharing the same bed. Jeonghan’s not that insane. The most you’d have to do is share a room and a bathroom, and the only thing he had to worry about was making sure that you felt safe sharing a space with him—

Oh fuck no.

The door to your hotel room swings open, and what Seungcheol sees has him taking back that statement about Jeonghan not being that insane because it turns out that Jeonghan is that insane.

There’s only one bed.

He was going to strangle each and every single one of his friends the moment this vacation was over.

“Oh,” You say, and Seungcheol thinks the gravity of the situation is starting to dawn on you. 

Seungcheol, ever the gentleman, is quick to try and alleviate the situation, “I can sleep on the couch—“

“Cheol, I don’t think you’re going to fit in there,” You shake your head. “I’ll take the couch—“

“No, it looks uncomfortable,” Seungcheol shakes his head. “I’ll take it—“

“Let’s just share the bed,” You say firmly, and Seungcheol doesn’t bother arguing because he may be a gentleman, but he’s also just a man so head over heels in love that he’ll seize whatever opportunity he can to be beside you. “The bed’s big enough anyway.”

“Are you sure? Mingyu says I snore loudly,” Seungcheol says jokingly, offering you a way out in case you changed your mind in that split second. He may be an opportunistic asshole, but he still had a shred of his morals left untouched by his need to have you all for himself.

You don’t take it, only laughing at his words before plopping onto the couch beside the window that puts the ocean into view. “I’ll just have to fall asleep before you.”

Seungcheol only laughs, setting the bags down and shutting the door before plopping beside you on the couch. “I’ll make sure to stay awake until then.”

“Good.”

—

The universe is testing you, you can feel it.

First, the long drive. You had spent the first half of the drive talking Seungcheol’s ear off to keep him awake throughout the early morning. The second half was spent off in dreamland, and it’s only when you woke up that you realized that you had turned Seungcheol into your personal pillow while he kept an arm around your head to keep it from falling forward. The contact had you flustered—and imagining a few other scenarios that involved his arm around your head in a wholly different context—but Seungcheol looked casual, like it was just another day of saving distressed damsels for him.

Second, the hotel room. You had swung the door open expecting two single beds, at the very least, only to be met with the sight of a king-sized bed. Thank the heavens it was king-sized because you don’t really know how sane you can stay if you had to sleep even closer to Seungcheol. Even the slightest, most innocent brush of skin had you freaking out and internally screaming, you’re not sure if you can handle accidental cuddling—

Ok, maybe you were being too delusional, but still! The chances of it happening are low but never zero.

Third and lastly, is the entire trip to the city after lunch. Choi Seungcheol was acting like the world’s finest gentleman. He was out promptly pulling chairs for you, gently guiding you by the waist, softly asking for your input, dutifully taking nice pictures, and endlessly bombarding you with other different acts of service that had Mingyu’s doting actions for his girlfriend pale in comparison. And that isn’t how it’s supposed to be because Mingyu is practically married to her while you and Seungcheol are just friends. 

Choi Seungcheol needed to stop being so frustratingly attentive before you took his friendly actions the wrong way.

(Or maybe you were just being delusional?)

And now, you’re here, drying your hair and going through your night routine as slowly as you can to avoid facing Seungcheol and the inevitable only-one-bed trope the universe decided to throw your way like some sick joke to kick your already down bad self lower into the ground.

When you get out of the bathroom, Seungcheol’s lounging on the couch, lying on his side with one hand propping his head up as he goes through reels on his feed.

“Bathroom’s free,” You say as you plop onto the bed and take a look at how much battery your phone accumulated while you were bathing. You’re trying to look casual as you do it, but the delusional part of your brain can’t help but point out that this felt a little too much like a honeymoon or a one-night stand—

The door to the bathroom shuts, and you let out a heavy breath that you didn’t know you were holding. You’re overreacting, you know, and you almost envy the way Seungcheol’s being so cool about it all. 

You argue that it’s because he isn’t in love with you the way you are with him. He doesn’t have to worry about his heart skipping beats or his mind racing endlessly. He doesn’t have to feel all the feelings you do because he isn’t in love with you. Maybe that’s why he’s being so casual. Maybe you don’t even register as someone worth dating. Maybe you were just another bro to him.

Damn it.

Seungcheol’s shower is unfairly quick, and you find yourself pretending to scroll through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world. Your phone isn’t upside down, is it? No, it’s not, thankfully. That would be embarrassing.

Seungcheol takes the space beside you, and it’s taking everything in you not to blurt out something—even if it’ll come out a little awkward—just to dispel the tension in the air.

“What are you watching?” Seungcheol, thankfully, is the one to speak up first, scooting closer to you on the bed to watch the videos on your phone.

“Instagram reels,” You reply, slightly angling the phone to give Seungcheol a better view.

It’s oddly domestic, but you don’t say it out loud.

The rest of the evening passes by like that: you and Seungcheol going through the reels in your feed like 10-year olds ruining their attention span with unsupervised screentime. The tension is gone, and in its place is a calm air that gives your heart the space to flutter and race whenever a hearty chuckle or a light snicker leaves Seungcheol’s form.

You hate the way it makes you feel all funny.

Eventually, the early morning drive and the exhaustion from the day catches up to you, and you find yourself fighting to keep your eyes peeled as you hold your phone up to go through a few more videos.

“Sleepy?” Seungcheol asks softly from beside you. 

“A little,” You reply before a yawn treacherously leaves your mouth. “Okay maybe not just a little.”

“Sleep then,” Seungcheol says. “No one’s holding you at gunpoint to stay awake.”

“But the reels,” You pout softly. Seungcheol could probably just whip his own phone out, but you enjoyed watching the reels on your phone together. Sleeping meant letting that moment die, and you’re not sure if it’s something you can bring back to life.

“Sleep, Y/N,” Seungcheol says as he takes your phone, shuts it, and reaches over you to place it on your nightstand, something that has the expanse of his torso hovering dangerously close to your own from above. He grins down at you as he withdraws into the space you’ve mentally designated as his. “There. No more phone for you, miss.”

You only match his playful energy with a pout, hoping with every fiber of your being that it conceals the way your heart is threatening to break free from his proximity. “Killjoy.”

“Mhm, you bet,” Seungcheol only affirms you before chuckling. “Sleep before I do or else you’ll have to put up with my snoring.”

“Fine,” You huff out petulantly before turning your back to him. “Night Cheol.”

“Night, Y/N,” Seungcheol replies, and you hear the sheets shift for a few seconds before it pauses, the silence taking over.

Despite the rapid beating of your heart, it only takes a few minutes before you’re pulled into a deep sleep by the exhaustion from the day’s events. 

—

Choi Seungcheol is going through the toughest test of self-restraint.

You’re fast asleep, clinging onto him like he’s nothing more than a pillow for your comfort, and Seungcheol is hyperaware of every sliver of skin and cloth of yours that touches him. 

Even breathing feels impossible.

Seungcheol is flattered that you feel comfortable enough to be knocked out cold this quickly, but fuck, why did you have to be this adorable while sleeping? Your softened features, your parted lips, your curled body—all of it had this protective urge taking over Seungcheol’s form. Every single fiber of his being is practically aching to take you into his arms and protect you from the imaginary dangers of the night broken by nothing but the moonlight streaming from the window.

The only downside to it all is that Seungcheol can’t seem to hold onto you despite the way you’ve pressed the entirety of your front to his side, with your leg even going as far as slinging itself across his thigh like it’s nothing more than a bolster. Surely this was punishment, to have everything you wanted being dangled—tighly pressed—in front of you and not being able to do anything other than lie still like a log.

Puppies, sunshine, clouds, flowers, grandmas—Choi Seungcheol is trying to think of every neutral thing he can to distract him from the softness caging his arms and the plush pressed against the muscle of his thigh. He’s a gentleman, he swears! But he is also just a man, and it’s not his fault that his physiology was weak to your magnetism. Hell, even your smile was enough to have him chubbing up like a hormonal freak from time-to-time so this? This was nitric oxide straight to the fucking shaft—

You shift, hand now pressed onto Seungcheol’s chest as your unconscious body nuzzles deeper into him like it’s where you belong. 

Seungcheol’s heart pounds harder, and briefly, he wonders if the strength of its beating is strong enough to be felt by your unconscious form. He hopes it is, no matter how illogical. It beats that way for you, so it’s only right that you know.

Soon, Seungcheol thinks to himself as he finds his heart swelling with warmth and affection as he traces your face with a gaze nothing short of adoration. With a soft touch, he brushes a strand of your hair away from your forehead. It’s the only thing he allows himself to do, but he thinks even that single, intentional brush of skin against skin is enough to temporarily satiate the ache in his soul that longs for the entirety of your being.

Rejection suddenly seemed meaningless when placed beside the need to love you out loud.

—

When you wake up, Seungcheol is already awake.

He’s lying on his back, eyes trained onto the screen of his phone as he scrolls through it with one hand. His other hand is—

Oh my god, you have his other arm hostaged.

You’re quick to scoot away, eyes wide open as apologies spill from your lips, “Cheol, I am so sorry—“

Seungcheol only snorts before pulling you back until you’re closer than before, cheek now pressed against his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you, “I don’t mind. The guys do it a lot anyway.”

The guys?

Well, damn. Now, you’re not sure if you’re going to be relieved, embarrassed, or offended. It’s great that he’s taking it in stride, but did you really not have an effect on him? Were you seriously getting homie-zoned right now? Choi Seungcheol had an entire woman pressed up against him, and he’s lying there like it’s just another sleepover with the bros.

The hell?

“Look,” Seungcheol is snickering as he shows you another meme, and you have to admit that it is funny, but you’re too annoyed at your lack of effect on him to give him anything greater than an amused roll of your eyes.

The rest of the morning continues like that, the two of you bundled up like homies—fuck you, Cheol, you think—while scrolling through Seungcheol’s feed. However, when the clock strikes 8:00, the two of you are quick to part and prepare for the little trip to the beach planned for that morning. 

Frustrated and feeling a little rejected from the morning’s events, you enter the bathroom and quickly change into the white bikini you bought while shopping with Mingyu’s girlfriend before wearing a cute linen dress to cover it up. Fuck the tankini sitting in your bag, you were a woman on a mission. You don’t mind if you register as hoe in Seungcheol’s mind as long as you didn’t register as homie.

How annoying.

When you get out of the bathroom, Seungcheol is already adding the final touch to his outfit: a yellow cap that made his biceps shift and bulge as he adjusted it on his head.

Maybe you should just say fuck it and strip in front of him. Let’s see if he’ll still have the gall to unknowingly bro-zone you then. 

“Ready to go?“ Seungcheol turns to you, pausing when his eyes land on you. The look on his face is unreadable as his eyes look you up and down. “You look… Nice.”

“Thanks,” is what you say in reply. It’s not a victory, but it isn’t a loss either, so you take it. “Now let’s go get breakfast. I wanna swim while it’s still not that hot.”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am.” 

—

Rest in peace, Choi Seungcheol.

It’s the only thing running through Jeonghan’s head as he watches the morning unfold from where’s sitting on the beach towel.

The day already started out… Charged. Everyone in the little vacationer group felt the air shift the moment you and Seungcheol joined them for breakfast, and Jeonghan briefly debated asking if the two of you finally fucked it out. However, based on the way Seungcheol still kept his touches light and fleeting, and the way his jaw seemed to clench when you so much as brush against him, Jeonghan realizes that you guys probably didn’t… But you’re definitely close to it.

It all gets worse the moment the little group goes to the beach, and you—poor, obliviously pretty you—were quick to garner attention that Jeonghan thinks is very much warranted given the way your little dress looked on you. He has eyes, Jeonghan likes to think he can say that much. He can’t say it out loud though, unless he wanted to deal with a bitchy Seungcheol.

At first, Seungcheol had been fine, watching over you from afar and scowling at whatever prick that felt worthy enough to be within a two-meter radius of you. However, it became a different story the moment you shimmied out of your dress and started playing the water.

Jeonghan has to resist the urge to cackle like a madman when he sees Seungcheol subtly adjust his swim shorts before power-walking over to where you’re being engaged in friendly conversation by a random man that was blind to the 178-cm lump of muscle and anger issues that was hovering around you like an overprotective guard dog.

“Should we just lock them in a room?” Joshua asks from beside Jeonghan, watching as Seungcheol puts a possessive hand on your bare waist as he talks to the ballsy dude that dared to even look at you.

“Isn’t that kind of what we did with the rooms?” Jeonghan snorts. “I’m surprised they’re still not together.”

“Technically, they aren’t locked in the room,” Joshua replies. “I meant more like a fuck-or-die scenario.”

“You’re insane for that,” Jeonghan laughs as he imagines locking the door and refusing to open it until you and Seungcheol confess your obvious feelings to each other… Or until you did something else. “Not a bad idea, though.”

“What are we talking about?” Mingyu suddenly appears with his girlfriend by his side, the two dripping after a little frolicking in the seawater. He turns to look at where Jeonghan and Joshua are focused, and he’s met by the sight of you digging holes with Seungcheol for your little sandcastle while the man looked like he wanted to be digging his fingers into a completely different hole.

How the fuck can you not see it? Feel it?

“Thinking if we should just lock them into a room until they confess,” Jeonghan replies before sipping on his drink. He’s honestly impressed at Seungcheol’s tenacity. If the woman he liked was bouncing around like that in a cute little two-piece while other men leered like the sleazy douchebags they are, he’d be dragging her into the closest secluded space, confess, and pray to the heavens that it leads to something more.

“What about flirting with her?” Mingyu suggests, and Jeonghan and Joshua are quick to look at him incredulously while his girlfriend only rolls her eyes.

“Bro, are you trying to get us killed?” Joshua asks, face scrunched up in disbelief. “Look at him.”

And they all do. Seungcheol is literally glaring at any man that dares to linger around you, not that there were many considering how offensive his energy felt. If looks could kill, this beach would become a graveyard. The look on his face only softens when you address him, bossing him around as you continue to point at different areas for Seungcheol to dig into.

Seungcheol, ever the lovesick fool, only nods and gets to work, eyes rounding out with a desire for praise and approval as he presents his handiwork.

“Whipped bastard,” Jeonghan snickers when he watches the way Seungcheol practically deflates when you shake your head in what seemed to be disapproval at the little hole that Seungcheol dug.

“Wanna bet on how long after this trip he’ll confess?" Mingyu suggests with a grin. “I’m betting a week.”

“Too long,” Jeonghan shakes his head. “I say a day.”

“You all believe in him too much,” Joshua snorts. “Two weeks.”

“Is no one betting on months?” Mingyu’s girlfriend asks, and the no that comes from the three men is unanimous. They knew Seungcheol like the back of their hand, and with how whipped the man was, they’d say that the confession is long overdue.

“How much are we betting?” Jeonghan asks.

“50,000 won,” Joshua quickly replies. “From each of the losers.”

“Damn, can I change my answer?” Mingyu suddenly says as he suddenly realizes the gravity of the stakes.

“Nope,” Jeonghan says cheerfully. “The one with the closest answer wins. “Prepare to lose.”

—

Yoon Jeonghan is the devil in disguise, you think.

He looks like an angel, but the way he was getting everyone to down shots like it’s water is insane. The way he coaxed everyone into playing drinking games in your hotel room—that you unfortunately sucked at—is harmless at first, but it’s quick to turn concerning when you realize just how many bottles you’ve all downed in the process. Despite all that, Jeonghan himself seems to remain sober while everyone else got inebriated.

Seungcheol got the worst of it though, you think. The man had volunteered to drink your penalty shots after a certain point, and with how often you lost, you’re surprised he hasn’t passed out on the floor beside you.

Everyone’s buzzed, some more than others. It’s clear that everyone’s inhibitions are slowly slipping away. Joshua has a faraway look in his eyes as he swirls his bottle before drinking again. Jeonghan is just yapping endlessly. Mingyu and his girlfriend are just all over each other, and you have to pretend not to see the way their hands are hovering dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be, not in a room full of people, at least.

And Seungcheol? Seungcheol’s wasted, you think, his cheek pressed against your shoulder as he drunkenly giggles—he’s gone alright—at something Jeonghan says. You try to ignore the way his hand rests warm upon your bare knee.

“We’ll get going,” Mingyu suddenly says as he gently pulls his girlfriend to her feet. “You guys enjoy though.”

Everyone bids them goodbye with knowing looks. Shortly after that, Joshua and Jeonghan leave as well after cleaning up, leaving you and Seungcheol on the floor of your hotel room with your backs pressed against the side of the bed.

“Are you okay?” You ask Seungcheol in a soft tone as he continues to lean against you, eyes blinking sleepily as he pokes and prods at your knee like it’s the most interesting thing his drunken self has seen. You wonder if he can feel the way your blood thrums beneath your skin. He’s stuck himself to close enough for him to feel it, you think.

“I’m fine,” Seungcheol nods against your shoulder. “You’re finer though.”

The amused snort that leaves you is sudden, ugly, but it only makes Seungcheol’s dopey grin wider while you flushed underneath his gaze.

“Who knew you’d be this smooth when you’re drunk?” You laugh, finding the entire thing all too amusing. Some part of you is tempted to start recording it all just to tease Seungcheol tomorrow. You know he doesn’t mean it, that it’s just the alcohol talking, but it’s funny nonetheless.

(Though some part of you wishes that he actually finds you fine.)

“I’m always smooth,” Seungcheol pouts as he pulls away, hand withdrawing from your knee to point an accusatory finger at you. “You just don’t notice.”

Huh?

The confusion must be clear on your face because the pout on Seungcheol’s face is quick to deepen. “See! Even now, you still don’t.”

“Cheol, what?” You ask, heart racing in anticipation. You’re not dumb. You’ve consumed enough media to know that things like this could transition into drunken heartfelt confessions, but you doubt that it was about to happen to you, of all people.

It doesn’t stop you from hoping, though.

“Y/N, I’ve been flirting with you for months,” Seungcheol complains, frustration clear on his face. “Do you not like me? Because I’ve been making moves on you for a while but none of them seem to be successful—“

“Sorry, what?” You stare at Seungcheol, disbelief and confusion clear. He literally homie-zoned you this morning! What do you mean he was making moves on you for a while? Flirting with you for months? Since when? “Cheol, I don’t understand.”

Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Because while your instinct told you that you and Seungcheol were constantly toeing the line between friendship and something more, the socially anxious, less confident side of you refused to assume in fear of coming across as arrogant and delusional.

“I like you—hell, I might even be in love with you,” Seungcheol says with certainty, but you know it’s just the alcohol boosting his confidence and fueling his recklessness.

Interested in you, you can accept, but like? Love? You highly doubt it. You’ve been pining after him for a long time, and you’ve seen the confident, straightforward, accomplished, drop dead gorgeous women he’s entertained, and you know that you’re the farthest thing from that. Sure, you aren’t too bad, but you aren’t that great either.

So what reason did Choi Seungcheol have to even spare you a glance?

“Y/N, say something,” Seungcheol says, voice suddenly small as he looks at you with a gaze that looks too desperate to be fake. “Because I think you like me too, but I want to be sure that I’m not making it up and overstepping boundaries—“

“Cheol, you’re drunk,” You cut him off before he can ramble further. Too many things aren’t making sense all at once, and you didn’t need him to add more to the mess in your head. It turns out you weren't as slick as you thought you were, but that’s the least of your concerns when Seungcheol is drunkenly confessing to you and every part of you wishes it was true.

“I am, but I mean it,” Seungcheol practically pleads as he leans in closer, the proximity forcing your heart into overdrive. Gently, he grabs your hand before laying it flat above his chest, hand enveloping yours with warmth as his eyes search your gaze for a sign. “Do you think I can fake that?”

Seungcheol's heart beats underneath your palm, and you find that the force at which it pounds is enough to rival the racing of your own heart. He can’t fake it, you know that, but why you? Why now?

“Cheol,” You know you’re going to regret passing up this opportunity as you speak. “Sober up, then we’ll talk.”

Seungcheol’s grip on your hand wavers, and you’re quick to pull away. You hate the way his gaze falls like he’s hurt, hate the way he purses his lips and nods in understanding while you rise to your feet and go into the bathroom.

“I’ll wash up,” You whisper softly before closing the bathroom door, and Seungcheol only nods.

It’s quiet. 

Seungcheol is both too close and too far away.

Your backs are turned to each other, the distance between you on the king-sized bed now suddenly apparent as you confine yourself to the spaces you’ve designated for yourselves. You wonder if sleeping is hard for him the way it is for you, but the silence on his end has you doubting that

Fuck Choi Seungcheol, for tilting your world on its axis and having the audacity to fall asleep peacefully.

Your mind races through the past few months, overthinking and dissecting every interaction you’ve had with the man to try and prove yourself right, but you come up empty. The workouts, the dinners, the late night conversations—all of it point to one obvious direction that you refused to run straight into.

Why the fuck did modern dating have to be so difficult?

Can’t people just confess—

Well, he did confess. If anything, you’re the problem here. You’re the one who refused to believe it, but can anyone really blame you when Choi Seungcheol decided that the best time to confess was when he was clearly intoxicated? No self-respecting—notoriously overthinking—woman would believe that!

It takes a few more hours of your internal monologue before you fall asleep, and even then the sleep is shallow, useless, worthless because you’re waking up the next day with a pounding head and an aching body.

Seungcheol is already up, packing his things quietly on the couch as you sit up on the bed.

Does he remember? You wonder.

You don’t know what you want the answer to be, honestly.

“Oh, you’re up,” Seungcheol says softly as he straightens up and drops the shirt he was folding into the bag.

“About last night—“

“What time do we have to be out?” You cut him off, and you turn your head subtly to avoid seeing the frown that forms on his face. You’re not ready for this, not ready to face the conclusion of the very long period of pining you went through.

Seungcheol doesn’t argue, doesn’t make mention of last night any further than he already has, and you’re thankful for it. “We’re having breakfast at 9 then we leave at 10.”

“Is Mingyu driving? You went pretty hard on the drinks,” You joke, trying to lighten the air as you grab your things from the closet.

“They’re riding with Jeonghan and Shua,” Seungcheol replies, and you’re quick to realize the implications of his words. “And don’t worry about me, I’m already sober.”

Sober up, then we’ll talk.

Your own words haunt you now.

“I can shift, if you’re tired,” You offer.

Seungcheol snorts at that, and it’s the only warning you get before you feel him behind you, warmth radiating from his chest to your back as he reaches into the closet and grabs his jacket. “No need, I know you don’t like driving.”

With that, he withdraws, leaving your heart racing and your body flushing as you try to ignore the lingering sensation of his body against yours.

You were not looking forward to the drive home.

—

Signal 보내, signal 보내

찌릿, 찌릿, 찌릿, 찌릿

난 너를 원해, 난 너를 원해

왜 반응이 없니—

You quickly switch the song. If you had known that your playlist was going to work against you today, you wouldn’t have taken Seungcheol’s offer of taking control of the music.

You have stolen my heart, oh, yeah—

Mentally, you swear as you switch to the next song. Could this day get any worse? You don’t know if you’re imagining it, but you swear Seungcheol looks amused as you try to look for a song that isn’t about love and yearning.

Why the fuck was your playlist like this again?

(You’re a hopeless romantic deep inside, that’s why.)

So if you’re ready (so if you’re ready)

And if you’ll let me (and if you’ll let me)

I wanna see it in motion, in 3D

You won’t regret me—

“Why’d you switch?” Seungcheol pouts as he glances over at you. “I liked that song.”

He’s fucking with you, you can tell.

“I don’t,” You huff. It’s an obvious lie considering the fact that it was your playlist, but it only leaves Seungcheol even more amused as he continues to drive.

Touch, touch, touch, touch, touch

Thought about you way too much, much, much, much, much

Over overthinkin' us, us, us, us, us (ooh-ooh)—

Seungcheol turns the music off, and without missing a beat he speaks. “You really don’t want to talk about last night?”

You’re quiet as you fiddle with your fingers.

You do, you really do, but you’re scared about what it might mean for your friendship. You started this entire thing with no plan of ever getting entangled with Seungcheol, but now you’ve braided and knotted yourself so deeply into this mess that one wrong step may just lead to you hanging your friendship with the man into a noose of your own making.

“It’s fine if you don’t feel the same, Y/N,” Seungcheol shrugs like he’a trying to be cool about it, but you don’t miss the way his knuckles go white from his grip around the wheel. “I’m not going to force you—“

“You’re not,” You shake your head. You’re a coward but you aren’t a liar. “Cheol, look, you’re right about me liking you. You aren’t making that up, but…”

You pause, trying to find the right words.

But what?

But I don’t believe you?

But I don’t think it’ll work out?

But I don’t think I can risk losing all of this for the chance to have all of you?

“Cheol, I’m not your type,” You reason out like an idiot, and it has Seungcheol giving you a questioning look that has you realizing just how immature it sounded. “I’ve liked you even before you knew me, and I’ve seen the girls you talk to in the gym, the ones that manage to score dates with you, and I’m nothing like that—“

“Don’t you think that maybe that’s why?” Seungcheol interrupts before you can spiral further. “You’re nothing like them, you’re right, and I’m glad you aren’t because I like you. I’d say the other word, but I don’t want to scare you off.”

“Not like I can run from a moving car,” You joke, trying to dispel the tension, and Seungcheol smiles. “I just find it hard to believe that you actually like me.”

“Did you really not notice?” Seungcheol asks, eyes flickering between you and the road. “Everyone thought I was being obvious.”

“I thought you were being friendly,” You argue, and Seungcheol is quick to look offended at your words.

“Sorry? Friendly?” Seungcheol spits the word out like it puts a sour taste in his mouth. “Y/N, I pick you up and drive you home. I pay for all our dinners. I literally lose sleep texting you and you—“

Seungcheol laughs in disbelief, “You think I’m being friendly?”

Well, when he put it like that…

“Sorry,” You say sheepishly. “I don’t really… I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

“Accept my feelings and kiss it all better, maybe?” Seungcheol says jokingly. “Kidding, but if you want to, I don’t mind.”

“Can you…” You take a deep breath. Despite every cell in your body screaming at you to take this man into your arms and kiss him senseless, you refused to jump headfirst into a dive where you have no estimate of the fall. “Can you give me time?”

“Of course,” Seungcheol doesn’t miss a second. “I’d wait forever if you asked me to.”

Somehow, that eases you.

One month. You’d give yourself one month to test the waters and the veracity of Seungcheol’s words before coming to a decision.

—

A month is too long, you think.

Ever since Seungcheol’s confession a two weeks ago, you have not known peace. Picking you up and driving you home is no longer an MWF thing, it’s become an everyday routine. Dinners are no longer just Friday night meet-ups, they’ve become spontaneous take-outs to your workplace and home-cooked dinners in your apartment. 

You were able to overlook the intention in Seungcheol’s actions then, but you don’t think you can do it now. Not when Seungcheol seemed so hellbent on being anything but friendly to you.

It’s not good for your heart.

And now you’re here, doing another leg day session with Choi Seungcheol who probably only ever started joining these sessions to get to know you. 

“How much do you weigh?” Seungcheol asks as he loads a plate onto the bar.

You’re not sure why he’s asking, but you answer him anyway, and Seungcheol is quick to nod, stacking a few more plates until it matches the number you gave.

What?

“What exercise are we doing?” You ask, watching as Seungcheol steps over the bar and sits on the floor.

“Guess,” is the only thing Seungcheol says as he gets under the bar, positions it over his hips, and thrusts to get the bar up.

Oh fuck no.

The bar practically flies as Seungcheol thrusts it, and the way he’s looking at you with a grin tells you that all of this, from the exercise choice to the weight of what he’s lifting, is intentional. You’re not sure what he’s trying to convey, but you sure as hell know that it isn’t harmless with the way he hits you with a wink when he sets the weights down and stands up without a single drop of sweat, “Your turn.”

“Show off,” You mumble. You can hip thrust your own weight, but you usually start with something lower for the warm-up. You don’t remove plates though, refusing to let Seungcheol and his suggestive looks faze you.

“Only for you,” Seungcheol replies as he watches you do your own set. 

When you finish what was supposed to be your warm-up set, Seungcheol adds a few more plates, and you’re not going to lie, it was starting to feel less like a workout and more like flirting that was bordering on… You refused to acknowledge it.

Seungcheol thrusts the bar, no sweat, and it has your mind wandering into a less innocent territory. You hate that he looks good even when he’s thrusting a heavy bar, hate that his thighs only look even better from this angle. It has you imagining what it would be like to grip onto them while he—

“You’re up,” Seungcheol says with a brief squeeze to your hip followed by a pat to your back. It’s only then that you realize you’ve been staring into nothingness, lost in your inappropriate thoughts as Seungcheol throws a self-satisfied smirk your way.

Prick.

The rest of your workout continues like that, an unspoken but well-known tension hanging in the air as you and Seungcheol go through the motions of the exercises. By the end of it, you’re sweaty, exhausted, and heaving, and there’s a frustration in your veins that not even the workout could get rid of. If anything, Seungcheol’s casual touches and brushes against you throughout the little leg day session only had you getting more wound up while he gave you those unfairly handsome, teasing grins that had you heart racing and you panties metaphorically falling.

Fuck you, Choi Seungcheol.

“Mingyu wants to go out for drinks tomorrow,” Seungcheol says as he hands you a bottle of water. “Wanna come?”

“What time?” You ask before downing what was left of your water in one go. You hoped the coolness of it would kill the heat in your stomach, but it doesn’t.

“Around 10 PM,” Seungcheol says, and you’re quick to catch on to the fact that it isn’t just going to be a casual hangout over drinks in some bar. “If you go, I’ll go.”

“What if I don’t go?” You ask with a teasing grin. Mingyu’s probably going to sulk and whine if Seungcheol didn’t show up because of you. Somehow, the idea has you feeling powerful. 

“Then I won’t,” Seungcheol shrugs. “I’m not really into clubbing that much anymore.”

You wonder what Choi Seungcheol was like in his younger years. He’d probably be a heartbreaker, you think. With a face like that and a charm to match, that man probably had girls hitting on him for the chance of getting that one night.

Somehow the thought both pisses you off and turns you on. Had you been less shy, and had your paths crossed during those days, you probably and unfortunately would have been one of those girls vying for his attention. 

Who wouldn’t in the face of a man like that? 

“I’ll go,” You reply, and Seungcheol looks surprised.

“Are you sure?” Seungcheol asks, and you can hear the worry lacing his tone. “It’s noisy and crowded, so it might not be up your alley.”

“You’ll be there, no?” You ask, and Seungcheol nods. “I think I’ll be fine.”

The smile on Seungcheol’s face is bright.

Fuck, you can’t wait for the month to be over.

—

Choi Seungcheol is too old for this shit.

He’s only 30, it’s not that old, but he’s spent so much of his 20s in this setting that he’s grown desensitized to whatever high it’s meant to bring. He had hoped you would reject the invitation so he could proceed to invite you over to his place for dinner and a movie marathon, but he’ll take what he can get.

It didn’t matter where he was as long as you were around. A shame you still hadn’t arrived really.

You were with Mingyu’s girlfriend, the latter suggesting a quick shopping trip and a makeover session before your little night out with Mingyu, Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Joshua. The latter two were already out and about, chatting up a few strangers here and there, and they seemed to be having fun.

Good for them, but Seungcheol was definitely not having fun, and he thinks Mingyu’s on the same boat.

“Dude, I miss her already,” Mingyu sighs as he sulks deeper into the faux leather of the booth seat. There are a few women throwing sultry gazes his and Seungcheol’s way, but none of them are successful.

“Same,” Seungcheol replies, taking another sip from his drink before frowning. For a place so expensive, their alcohol was shitty. “What time did they say they were coming?”

“They were on the way 20 minutes ago,” Mingyu huffs out, swirling his glass with a bored expression. “Should I call her?”

“No,” Seungcheol says as he whips out his phone. “I’ll call Y/N—“

“Sorry we’re late, we lost track of time,” Mingyu’s girlfriend is the first to approach, and Seungcheol has to resist the urge to roll his eyes when Mingyu stands up straight and takes the woman into his arms with whines of how much he missed her.

Simp—

“Sorry for keeping you guys waiting,” comes your voice, and Seungcheol is quick to lose the right to judge Mingyu because the way he’s puffing his chest out and sending a lovesick grin your way—all without a proper label—is seriously embarrassing.

Good thing he doesn’t give a shit.

Especially not when you look like a figment of Seungcheol’s worst intentions in your little black dress and heels.

Fuck, you were going to kill him.

Seungcheol swallows the lump in his throat as you take the seat beside him. “You look—“

“Nice?” You say teasingly as you pluck the drink from his hand and take a sip. The little wince on your face after tasting it has Seungcheol shaking his head with a laugh and opening a bottle of water for you to take

“I was going to say beautiful,” Seungcheol says as he takes the bottle from you and caps it again. “But if you insist.”

“Your vocabulary improved, at least,” You snort, and Seungcheol only grins.

“My girl’s smart so I gotta keep up,” Seungcheol replies, eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. He’s not usually this forward, but something about the atmosphere and the look in your eyes has him growing bolder.

“Oh?” You’re quick to match his energy, leaning closer as your finger coming up to toy with the dangling silver around Seungcheol’s neck. The action has your perfectly manicured nail lightly scratching against the notch of his jugular, and Seungcheol would be lying if he said that it had no effect on him. “Does she know she’s your girl?”

Seungcheol only smirks, one hand coming up to boldly rest on your bare knee as he speaks, “A guy can dream.”

“Save the flirting you two, Y/N promised to dance with me,” Mingyu’s girlfriend huffs and Seungcheol is quick to throw a glare at Mingyu’s way.

The man in question only sulks, clearly not happy about it either.

“Oh yeah!” Your mood is quick to shift as you let go of Seungcheol’s chain and stand up to where the other woman is. “Sorry, I’ll be back, I swear.”

“Don’t miss us too much, boys,” Mingyu’s girlfriend says with a wink sent straight to Mingyu’s direction while you give Seungcheol a small wave.

Damn it.

“Well,” Mingyu sighs as he pours himself a bottle. “Fuck this shit, really.”

“Pass me the other bottle,” Seungcheol says in response.

There goes his plans of spending the rest of the night with you.

—

It’s fun.

It’s a little outside of your comfort zone, but it’s fun. A few other girls have joined your little duo, and you’re all having the time of your lives dancing the night away. The thought of nightclubs used to intimidate you, but knowing that Seungcheol was just around the corner had you feeling a little more reckless, a little more carefree.

You and Mingyu’s girlfriend are swaying your hips to the music, giggling and grinding against each other like college girlfriends on a little girls’ night. You feel a little bad for leaving Seungcheol and Mingyu, but you’re sure they’ll find a way to have fun on their own.

“Y/N, so sexy!” Mingyu’s girlfriend cheers with giggles as you sway your hips against hers, and she’s quick to jokingly move and grind with you. “Maybe we should just date each other.”

You laugh at that, “Mingyu’s not going to like that.”

The woman only rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Wanna go back? I think we’ve left them long enough.”

“Yeah,” You’re quick to nod. Your feet were starting to ache, after all, and you’re beginning to think that wearing heels for the aesthetic was not a good choice considering the fact that you were used to moving around in rubber shoes. 

She’s quick to lead you out of the crowd, hand secured around your wrist as she heads into the direction of the little booth that Mingyu and Seungcheol paid for to use the entire night.

Your blood is practically buzzing, energized by the crowd and the alcohol in your veins as you giggle and chat with Mingyu’s girlfriend on the way back. The crash after this night is going to be so bad, you can already tell.

It’s a good experience though.

That good mood of yours is quick to disappear when you spot a woman sitting next to Seungcheol.

“Oh god, it’s her,” The woman beside you is quick to frown, annoyance clear on her face as she pauses in her steps to watch the situation play out.

“Who is she?” You ask, eyes locked on the way she seems to be leaning a little too close into Seungcheol’s bubble.

Fuck, is this how you were going to lose him?

“Jiwoo,” Mingyu’s girlfriend replies. “She’s obsessed with Seungcheol, like seriously obsessed.”

You eye her warily, but you don’t miss the way Seungcheol shifts away from her. 

“Go get your man, girl,” The woman beside you grins, nudging you forward as Jiwoo raises a hand to squeeze at Seungcheol’s arm, something that has the man quickly grabbing her wrist and pushing it off.

Know what, you will. You’re going to go out there and get your man. Fuck that one month, fuck not fighting for what you want. You weren’t about to let this pushy woman ruin your night and make Seungcheol more uncomfortable than he already is.

You were going to regret this, but you don’t really give a shit.

“Who’s this, babe?” You ask sweetly as you slip beside Seungcheol and wrap one arm around his, the other going straight to lay softly, possessively on his thigh. You don’t miss the way Seungcheol relaxes underneath your touch despite the surprised look on his face.

“An acquaintance,” Seungcheol replies, hand coming up to intertwine with the one you’ve laid on his thigh. 

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Cheol,” The woman giggles, but you can see the frustrated look in her eyes.

“Hi, I’m Jiwoo.”

“Y/N,” You smile sweetly. You were definitely punching above your weight, but fuck, you refused to let this woman get in your way. She reminded you too much of the cliquey girls in high school that pretended to be nice only to spread rumors behind your back. “How’d you guys meet?”

You can feel Seungcheol tense underneath you.

“Oh, we dated,” Jiwoo replies, smug, self-satisfied. “But I’m not trying to start anything, I swear! Seungcheol’s a great guy, after all, so I totally get why you’re dating him.”

“You went on one date,” Mingyu pipes in from the side, and Seungcheol chuckles. “I wouldn’t call that dating, really.”

Jiwoo only looks flustered for a second, her gaze growing sharp as she looks at Mingyu before turning to you and Seungcheol. 

“Well, I don’t think your rude friend wants me around so I’ll be off. My number’s still the same in case you—“ Jiwoo looks you up and down, unimpressed as her nice girl facade finally slips, “—want better company.”

With that, she takes her leave, and you have to resist the urge to go after her and give her a piece of your mind.

Fuck, what had gotten into you?

With the threat gone, you move to peel yourself away from Seungcheol, but he doesn’t let you move away, his hand letting go of yours to anchor you onto the seat by your thigh.

The sensation of his rough palm your bare thigh shoots straight to the heat between your legs.

“Babe?” Seungcheol asks, amused.

“You’re lucky I arrived on time,” You huff out, avoiding his gaze, but Seungcheol doesn’t let your gaze stray too far away before he’s grabbing your chin and making you look straight into his eyes.

You’d be lying if you said that the action didn’t get you all hot and bothered.

“Eyes on me, babe,” Seungcheol says, and you’re quick to swallow. “What was that?”

“What was what?” You ask, pretending not to know whatever it was he was alluding to.

“You know what I mean,” Seungcheol says, letting go of your chin to brush a strand of your hair back. 

You scoff, “I don’t, actually.”

“Brat,” Seungcheol only clicks his tongue, and you hear Mingyu’s soft whisper of ‘oh shit’ before you’re able to fully register the dark look swirling in Seungcheol’s eyes. 

“Mingyu, we’re leaving,” Seungcheol says as he stands up, hand wrapped securely around your wrist. You don’t even have the time to hear Mingyu or girlfriend’s goodbye before Seungcheol’s dragging you out of the nightclub and into a cab.

When the two of you get settled, Seungcheol only asks you one question:

“My place or yours?” 

At surface level, it’s an innocent question, but given the context, the history, and the events that just took place, you’re a hundred percent sure that it’s more than just about where you’re spending the night.

Were you finally going to seize what you wanted, or would you continue running away from it?

After more than a year of pining, the answer comes easy, you think.

“Yours.”

Seungcheol is quick to tell the driver, hand gripping and kneading possessively on your thigh throughout the entire ride. 

When you arrive, you only get a total of two seconds to take in your surroundings before Seungcheol’s shutting the door of his apartment and pressing you against it.

Quickly, your hands scramble to pull Seungcheol in by the collar, but he resists, hands braced on the door behind you while you stare at him in confusion.

“Y/N, what are we?” Seungcheol asks, gaze deep with an unspoken desperation that bleeds into his tone. “I need to know before we do this because I refuse to do anything halfway with you—“

“Cheol, I’m in love with you,” You breathe out, hands growing tight in their grip like you’re scared your confession might make him run away. 

It doesn’t. It only has Seungcheol letting out a shaky breath as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” Seungcheol says.

“Will you kiss me now?” You huff out a little impatiently as your hands move from his collar to lay flat across his chest. 

“Can we—“ Seungcheol chokes on his words for a moment when you dig your nails into him. “Can we not tonight? I don’t think I can stop at just kissing.”

You frown, a little torn. You wanted to respect his wishes, but not when he was only doing it in consideration of you. “Who said we were stopping at just kissing?”

Seungcheol is quick to groan at your words, his hands falling down to your waist as he speaks through a clenched jaw, “Y/N, I’m not kidding. Don’t do this to me. We haven’t even gone on a proper date—“

“Okay, and?” You reply, frown deepening. “Cheol, I’ve wanted you to bend me over since day one, do you really think I still have the patience when we were practically dating anyway—“

Your words are cut off by Seungcheol’s lips pressing against yours, and your mind is quick to blank. This is heaven on earth, you think. The way Seungcheol’s moving his mouth against yours is hungry, desperate, but there’s a sweetness, a devotion to it that even the lust emanating from his body can’t overshadow.

Seungcheol parts your legs with his, and it’s the only warning you get before your body jolts from the sensation of his muscled thigh rubbing against your core.

Fuck, this man should be illegal.

Your lips part in a soft moan, and Seungcheol is quick to slip his tongue inside while one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head. You’re powerless like this, mouth left to the onslaught of Seungcheol’s ravenous kiss as he tries to steal whatever remains of your breath.

Seungcheol parts from you, and the loss has you whining, but the man is quick to appease you by pressing kisses onto your neck as he unzips your dress. 

Thank the heavens you wore your favorite set: a cute white pair made of lace and sin that never failed to boost your confidence.

The groan that leaves Seungcheol’s throat is quick to have you dripping, your core tingling in anticipation as Seungcheol steps back to take you in.

“Warn a man next time, holy shit,” Seungcheol hisses through clenched teeth before he desperately grabs your waist and starts sucking bruises into the column of your throat.

“Next time?” You ask teasingly, but your shit-eating grin only lasts for a few seconds before it morphs into an ‘o’, an obscene moan leaving your throat when Seungcheol sucks over the lace covering your nipples. “Cheol, fuck!”

Seungcheol remains undeterred, too lost in the haze of finally having you all to himself. It seems like Seungcheol wasn’t happy about the cloth blocking you from his tongue because the next thing you know, he’s pulling the lace down to set your breasts free before he’s wrapping his mouth around a tit and groaning deeply.

A squeal leaves you when Seungcheol nips, but the unfamiliarly pleasurable sensation only has you arching and pressing your chest closer to his face.

“Cheol, please,” You breath out as Seungcheol switches to the other breast, his hands now furiously kneading at your asscheeks like he’s trying to imprint his fingers into your skin.

“Please what?” Seungcheol asks softly when he pulls away. “Use your words, baby.”

“Please fuck me,” You whine, nipples only growing harder as Seungcheol’s warm breath hits the spit smeared all over your chest. “Cheol.”

“Patience, baby, I need to prep you,” Seungcheol says with a kiss to your sternum that goes lower and lower until he’s kneeling on the floor between your legs. It’s one hell of a sight to have this strong, naturally domineering man on both knees as he looks up at you with a gaze nothing short of devotion.

Without breaking eye contact, Seungcheol leans forward until his nose hovers dangerously close to wet patch on your panties

A whine leaves your lips when Seungcheol digs his nose into the damp cloth, inhaling deeply like a fucking a freak with his eyes closed and his brows furrowed in bliss before he drags it up the lace covering your cunt until he reaches your swollen clit.

Your breath hitches when you feel his soft lips press against your clit, the sensation sending sparks up your spine as your stomach pools with a burning, aching desire that rids your brain of all logic and reasoning.

Without warning, you feel Seungcheol tugging at the waistband of your panties, lips trailing a scaldingly lecherous path from your thigh to your knees as he drags your underwear down.

You resist the urge to moan when you see Seungcheol pocketing the lace.

“Cheol, stop teasing,” You whine out, hands tugging impatiently at Seungcheol’s hair as he raises one leg over his shoulder.

“Let me savor you, baby,” Seungcheol appeases you with a kiss to your inner thigh that has you squirming and sighing. “You’re the one who said that eating slowly’s good for me, no?”

You swear there’s a smart remark on the tip of your tongue, but it quickly disappears when Seungcheol drags the warmth of his tongue across the length of your sopping core.

“Cheol, fuck!” You cry out, head throwing itself back against the door as your stomach caves and twists from the way Seungcheol practically devours your cunt. “Shit, that’s so good.”

Moans and whines continue to fall from your lips, tears pricking at your eyes from how overwhelming the sensations were. It’s all too much for someone whose experience only went as far as making out and light groping.

But you’re not about to tell Seungcheol that.

It’s a little embarrassing, you think. Because you may be a whore in theory, but you’re a goddamned virgin when it came down to the practical side. You didn’t really want to scare Seungcheol off with your inexperience.

Your vision goes white as your orgasm hits you like a speeding train. Obscene moans of Seungcheol’s name breaking free from your chest as you ride out your high on the man’s face. The man only groans, eyes rolling back as you coat his tongue with the sweetness of your release—

Fuck, you don’t think you’ve ever made yourself cum like that before.

You rest against the door, legs quivering with nothing but Seungcheol’s grip to keep you standing as he licks the release trailing down your thighs. He’s diligent, tongue chasing every trace and dribble of slick that oozes from your tingling cunt.

“D’you feel good, baby?” Seungcheol asks, pressing a soft kiss against the side of your knee before he’s standing, taking you into his arms, and nosing affectionately at your ear.

“Yes,” You breathe out, arms wrapping loosely around Seungcheol’s neck as he continues to press featherlight kisses all over your neck in an attempt to coax you down from your high and back to earth. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum like that.”

You feel Seungcheol’s lips morph into a grin against your jaw. “No one’s ever eaten you out that good, hm? Just me?”

“No one’s ever eaten me out, period,” You say jokingly, but you’re quick to realize your mistake when Seungcheol looks at you incredulously.

“You’re telling me that no one’s taken the time to eat you out?” Seungcheol sounds offended as he says it, brows furrowed in disbelief. “What kind of boys have you been going around with?”

“You’re the first,” You confess softly, hoping that he doesn’t hear. You might as well just get it over with. If your inexperience was going to scare Seungcheol off, then maybe he just wasn’t the one.

However, the way Seungcheol tenses up at your words tells you that he did hear you.

“Like,” Seungcheol stares at you with a look you can’t quite decipher. “Like kissing or what—“

“I’ve kissed before,” You’re quick to explain. “But this—I’ve never… I’ve never gone beyond making out.”

“Fuck,” Seungcheol looks like his world is crashing down. “I am so sorry holy shit. Y/N, you should’ve told me.”

Seungcheol continues to panic. “I would have been so much gentler if you told me—“

“What if I don’t want gentle?” You mumble, but the way Seungcheol stares at you with a dark look is enough for you to know that he heard you. Feeling a little more brave, you continue. “What if I want you to be rough with me?”

Fuck you and your horny brain, you’re probably biting off more than you can chew.

Seungcheol looks conflicted, looks like he’s fighting an internal battle where one side is clearly losing by a landslide. “Y/N, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Boldly, you press a kiss against Seungcheol’s throat that has his breath hitching and his lids fluttering shut, “Then show me.”

—

Choi Seungcheol needs to invest in a leash and a muzzle after this because holy shit—

He doesn’t think he’s ever tasted something as sweet or touched something as soft. You’re liquid ambrosia, and Seungcheol almost feels unworthy to have all of you to himself, but he's not going to let that stop him. He had no plans of getting his mouth or hands off you anytime soon. 

The only way your friends or family would ever get to you was if they knocked Seungcheol out cold and locked him into a cage because the possessiveness, the hunger, the desire—none of it would allow him to leave your side anytime soon.

Especially not after what you just said to him.

Seungcheol can see the worry in your eyes as he lays his hard cock on your stomach. He gets it, he really does, but fuck, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t have him getting harder, practically bursting at the seams as his tip leaks precum all over your navel.

Fuck he was going to ruin you for everyone that came after him. Not that he’d ever let that happen. He’d die before he let anyone get a taste, hell even a whiff of your sweet cunt.

You’re his just as much as he’s yours, and he’s going to make sure that you’re addicted to every aspect of him. He’s going to love you so good and fuck you so well that you’re never going to think of anyone else.

“Are you sure you want this?” Seungcheol gives you a final way out because while he may be aching to fuck you brainless, he’s still very very very much in love with you, and hurting you or forcing you into something you didn’t want was the last thing he’d ever do. You nod, but Seungcheol refuses to take that. “Say it, baby.”

“Yes, but…” Your eyes flicker between the heavy cock on your stomach and Seungcheol’s gaze that’s torn between worried and ravenous. “Will it fit?”

It’s a valid concern, and Seungcheol should probably be more worried, but hearing the question fall so sweetly, so innocently from your soft lips had Seungcheol wanting to say fuck it and move to corrupting the ever-loving shit out of you as he ploughs through your unsullied insides with his cock. 

Fuck, he’s disgusting.

(You had a way of bringing out the best and worst in him)

“We’ll take it slow, baby,” Seungcheol says with a tender kiss to your forehead like he isn’t fantasizing of the many different ways he could take your innocence in his bed. The idea of being the first to take you, to taint you, was something that had all reason leaving his body. His love for you being the final line of defense in the battle against his debauched desires. “We can stop at any time, okay? Just tell me.”

And he means it because Seungcheol may be a freak, but this freak just so happened to be in love with you.

When you nod, Seungcheol presses a quick peck to your lips before he’s sliding his cock through your folds to coat himself in your slick. He’s glad he coaxed three orgasms from your prior to this. He probably wouldn’t be able to stick even just the head in if he didn’t.

“Fuck, baby, easy there,” Seungcheol hisses when he slides the head of his cock in. He’s waited for this, fantasized about it even. Only the universe knows how many times he’s bent you over and fucked you on every surface know to man in his head. Regardless, no part of his imagination was ever truly enough to prepare him for the way you felt around his cock. “Relax for me.”

“I am, but you’re too big,” You whine, nails digging into Seungcheol’s shoulders as he slips more of his cock into you.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Seungcheol tries his hardest to make the apology sincere as he presses kisses against your tear-stained cheek, but he’s too focused on trying not to cum too soon. It’s a dangerous game, considering that he was bare in your cunt, but Seungcheol’s a weak man when it comes to you, so if you say that bare is fine then bare is, indeed, fine.  He can always just pull out.

Though he wonders what it would be like to fuck you full until your pussy oozes white, but Seungcheol doesn’t dwell on it because he might just bust in your cunt at the mental image.

“Can I move?” Seungcheol asks, and when you nod, he decides to just slide all the way in. He was just going to prolong the agony for the two of you if he slid it inch-by-inch.

The groan that leaves Seungcheol syncs with the obscene squeal of his name that leaves you when he buries cock inside you to the hilt, and it takes everything in Seungcheol not to start fucking in and out of you like an animal.

It’s hot, it’s tight, and Seungcheol doesn’t think he’s ever felt a pussy this fucking good. You're wrapped tight around him, your tiny opening stretched thin on the circumference of his cock in a way that has Seungcheol groaning and digging his fingers into the sheets to ground himself to reality. 

Seungcheol knows he’s going to ruin you, and he feels so bad about it because he knows he’s going to enjoy every single second of it. 

—

You’re no longer being fucked for pleasure, you think.

Seungcheol’s just fucking you to prove a point.

You’ve already cum twice, once on your back and the other on your side. Now, you’re on all fours, cunt loudly squelching from the sloppy way Seungcheol’s driving the mix of your release and his precum into the deepest crevices of your walls.

It’s so much deeper like this.

“Is this still friendly to you, baby?” Seungcheol hisses through gritted teeth as he fucks you from behind, nails digging crescents into your hips to make you meet his brutal thrusts. “Do you still think this is friendly?”

“No!” You cry out, cheek pressed against Seungcheol’s sheets as the man continues to pound you mercilessly. “Fuck, I thought we were over that—“

“Just making it clear,” Seungcheol says, leaning down until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. “Can’t have you thinking that I’m just a friend when I’m fucking you bare, no?”

The filth of Seungcheol’s words has you clenching, your brows furrowing and your eyes rolling back as depraved moans fall from your parted lips. 

“Answer, baby,” Seungcheol says darkly with a harsh thrust that has you jolting and whining. “Am I your friend?”

“No—hng—you’re not,” You’re surprised that you can still reply considering the mushy state of your head from Seungcheol’s toe-curling strokes. “N-Not a friend.”

“What am I then, baby, hm?” Seungcheol asks, pressing a featherlight kiss against the back of your ear before he nips it. “Come on, baby. No better time to make it official than when I’m fucking you full, no?”

“My boyfriend—fuck—Cheol!” 

“Good girl,” Seungcheol groans in approval. “Then its fiancé, then husband—fuck, you’re clenching, baby. Do you like the sound of that, hm?”

Fuck yes, you do, but you can only give him a nod. It was difficult to speak when Seungcheol was fucking every coherent thought out of you. 

You know it’s a little early to be even thinking about all of that when you just made it official a few seconds ago, but you trust this man with your life.

And you honestly don’t mind spending the rest of it with him.

“Fuck, you’re getting tighter,” Seungcheol hisses when he feels his thrusts hampered by the tight cling of your cunt. “Are you close, baby?”

“Yes!” You manage to gasp out through moans. “Cheol, please, I’m so close—“

Seungcheol’s thrusts pause, and you’re quick to whine in frustration. You were so close! Sure, you’ve cum twice on his cock, but fuck, it’s so unfair that Seungcheol would work you this close to your high only to cruelly rip it away from you at the last second.

“Say you’re mine, and I’ll let you cum,” Seungcheol whispers against your ear as he gives you slow, shallow thrusts that do nothing to quell your frustration. “You wanna cum, right? Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You whine out in frustration, the sheets crumpling under your hold as you try to fuck yourself back onto Seungcheol’s cock. “Fuck, Cheol, I’ve always been yours so just let me cum—Shit!”

Seungcheol’s thrusts are rough, but they’re methodical. His tip is repeatedly digging into that spot that has you seeing stars, electricity firing each of your nerves as you try to keep up with Seungcheol’s brutal fucking.

“Cum for me,” Seungcheol groans out against your ear. “Come on, you’ve been so good for me, baby. Let go.”

It’s the only thing you need before you’re sent straight into your fourth orgasm of the night, white dots bursting beneath your lids as your lips part into a silent scream. 

Seungcheol doesn’t stop even when you’re boneless on the bed, and you don’t tell him to. He’s fucked three orgasms out of you with his cock, and you think that letting him chase his release with your pliant body is the least you can do for him.

“I’m so close, shit,” Seungcheol hisses, thrusts picking up speed.

“Cum, Cheol,” You manage to breathe out, hand intertwining with Seungcheol’s on the bed where he’s bracing himself. “Cum all over me, please.“

Your cunt is suddenly empty as Seungcheol swears and flips you onto your back. You’re glad he did it because it gives you a perfect view of him pumping his cock desperately with his thick brows furrowed. It’s hot, he’s hot, the way his muscles shift and clench with every pump has you squirming and whining, and it’s taking everything in you not to line him up with your used cunt just to get him to cum inside.

When Seungcheol cums, it’s one hell of a sight. His handsome face morphs into an expression so blissed out as ropes of white spill all over your thighs, with some spilling dangerously close to your opening.

For a moment, neither of you speak as Seungcheol lies down beside you, pulling you close into his strong arms until you’re lying on top of him.

“Are you okay?” Seungcheol asks, tenderly rubbing your back up and down like he didn’t just give you the most mind-blowing orgasms you’ve ever experienced in your entire life.

“More than okay,” You giggle, pressing a kiss to his chin as you reach up and press away the furrow between his brows. “Stop worrying, I’m fine.”

“I didn’t mean to get that rough, sorry,” Seungcheol says, arms tightening around you. “Give me a second, and I’ll clean you up.”

Apparently, cleaning up was another way of saying that Seungcheol was going to lick you clean of his cum until there’s nothing but his spit and another wave of your release all over your cunt.

The orgasm takes all the energy left in you, and by the end of it, you’re teetering dangerously close to oblivion, unable to register anything other than the sensation of Seungcheol slipping into bed behind you.

“Sleep,” Seungcheol murmurs against your hair as he wraps his arm around your waist. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Good night, Cheol,” You whisper in reply.

“Good night, Y/N.”

—

Choi Seungcheol has never spent his mornings like this.

You’re fast asleep beside him, hair messed up, lips parted, and the only thing he can think about is how much he adores you.

You’re probably dreaming, and Seungcheol—despite having his eyes wide open—is too. He dreams of more mornings like this, dreams of rubbing soothing circles into your bare waist as he coaxes you awake with soft kisses all over your face, your neck, your shoulders. Seungcheol dreams of more nights with you, ones where he makes hard, sweet love to you just so he has an excuse to pamper you right after (not that he really needed the excuse). Seungcheol dreams of days, weeks, years, and forever by your side, and every cell in his body screams that it’s right. 

Seungcheol has chased otherworldly highs, but he dreams of the mundane by your side.

He dreams of his morning coffee placed beside your tea, dreams of his shoes set beside yours, dreams of things in doubles, in duos, in pairs that screamed you and him. Seungcheol dreams of doing groceries with you, dreams about the way his usually quiet girlfriend would boss him around about where and when to push the cart while he grins like a lovesick fool. Seungcheol dreams of laundry days, dreams of throwing his and your clothes into the wash while he cuddles with you on the couch. Seungcheol dreams of the hardest days with you, dreams of the moments where things are so difficult that he’ll want nothing more than to pull you close and never let go.

Seungcheol dreams of the dullest of things, but they shine bright because of your presence in every single one.

“What time is it?” You ask softly before yawning and stretching, and though Seungcheol’s been awake, he thinks it’s only now that he’s beginning his day.

“7:32,” Seungcheol says, and when you shoot up straight, he’s quick to laugh and drag you back onto the bed. “It’s Sunday, baby.”

At his words, you’re quick to relax, falling back and letting out a relieved sigh. Seungcheol takes it as an opportunity to cuddle, head falling onto your chest as he wraps his arms around you.

“Yah, you’re heavy,” You complain, but your arms wrap around him anyway, fingers carding through his hair affectionately with an occasional scratch through Seungcheol’s scalp. 

He might just fall asleep again—

“Yah, why’d you stop?” Seungcheol pouts, looking up from your chest as he grabs your hand to put it on his head.

The grin on your face tells him it’s intentional.

“You want it?” You ask, and Seungcheol is painfully reminded of all the ways he made you beg last night. “Say it then.”

“Brat,” Seungcheol huffs out before biting onto your chest softly, an action that you yelping and slapping at his shoulder with a pout. He only chuckles.

“No scratches for you,” You huff out, and Seungcheol only sulks, cheeks puffing out as he lays his head back on your chest.

However, it only takes a few seconds before he caves.

“Please?” Seungcheol suddenly mumbles out, eyes rounding and lips jutting out in his most pitiful pout. Fuck his pride, fuck his little tough guy persona. He was going to get cuddles and scratches through pouts and sulks, and he was going to enjoy it. “I like it when you scratch my head.”

You’re caught off guard, Seungcheol can tell, not actually expecting him to do all of that.

What Seungcheol doesn’t expect is the way you coo and take his face into your hands, “Oh my god, why are you so cute, that’s not fair!”

It’s the only warning Seungcheol gets before he’s rolled onto his back and showered with your kisses all over his face.

Seungcheol thinks he could die like this. You on top of him, smothering him with soft kisses and coos about how adorable he’s being while he giggles—yes, a grown man giggling—and complains about how ticklish your lips are.

This is it, Seungcheol thinks.

You’re forever to him.

A/N: This wasn’t supposed to have smut but my hand slipped oops

Specific Smut Warnings: Oral (f receiving), Corruption Kink, Size Kink, Loss of Virginity (tis a social construct), Unprotected sex (are we even surprised atp, don’t do it btw), Pulling Out (that isn’t birth control by the way, that’s breeding— *gets shot*), Mild Dacryphilia, MC is a brat in the making (one !! day !! soyongdorigyu !! will !! write !! about !! brat !! tamer !! cheol !!)

🔹General Taglist: @floraoleander, @wonu13, @socialsymphonies, @limeliner, @joepomonerof, @xxxhanasoni-blog, @bruhmoonlight, @nahyuckism, @enchantingbarbariansublime, @haaruki, @daisyyquakee, @hrtsformark, @sakusaskrma, @septemberskies, @lyche3soju, @eyeshasimps, @imjustchubby, @mari-maris-things, @picheolout, @sankriin, @tranquillitysoul, @amturners, @kyoongchannie, @alohacrispyrn, @jaja-salute, @woozilovespinkunderwear, @wonwooslefttiddie, @starmint-s, @dontmindme-readingsmutsonly, @hanniehaeo, @cherrylovescheol, @gyuguys, @codeinebelle, @amingo046

[selenethings]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[byordersofthepookieblinders]

Castiel will look you dead in the eyes and say the funniest shit you've ever heard in the most serious tone. I love him. We need to protect him

[colorlessjay]

[catchymemes]

[studioeisa]

routine romance ☕ seungcheol x reader.

you have a routine. a foolproof, tried and tested daily schedule. when the hell did choi seungcheol become part of it?

☕ pairing. talent recruiter!seungcheol x freelancer!reader. ☕ word count. 11.8k. ☕ genres. alternate universe: non-idol. romance, friendship, humor. ☕ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; implied smut. reader is a freelancer, seungcheol is a corporate slave, strangers to friends to lovers, slowburn, coffee shop romance, meet ugly, feelings realization/denial. reader has a nut allergy (this is relevant, i swear), lee felix as a plot device. ☕ notes. this is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. this is one of the two fics i have for the collaboration, and, admittedly, i expected it to be much shorter. alas, i cannot physically shut up about choi seungcheol in a suit. all my love to the amazing writers of tsb, but especially my co-host tara, who saw me come up with the concept for this in one deranged sitting.

That guy who’s always in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s not your seat. The Greeting Committee doesn’t have assigned tables. There’s no velvet rope or brass plaque with your name on it. But it’s understood. Window seat, second table from the left. Just enough sunlight to toast your forearms but not blind you. Outlet within reach. Smells like cinnamon in the mornings and espresso in the afternoons. 

Your seat. Spiritually.

And now he’s in it. Again.

You pause by the pastry case, pretending to consider a scone. It buys you time to glare at him with a level of passive aggression only caffeine deprivation can power. He doesn’t notice. He’s on the phone, murmuring something about image rights and venue capacity, wrist flicking as he gestures to someone who isn’t there. 

The barista, Felix, catches your eye. Offers a sympathetic shrug. This is the third time this week.

You settle at the small table near the bathroom. It wobbles. It always wobbles. You shove a napkin under the leg and mutter a curse that sounds polite. .

Seungcheol. That’s the name of the notorious seat-stealer. 

You learned his name from one of his calls, spoken with the clipped efficiency of someone used to being listened to. “Yes, this is Choi Seungcheol from Carat Company. Let me loop you in.” He says it like he’s not just looping someone in, but reeling them from the goddamn abyss. Like he’s personally saving the entertainment industry one Bluetooth earpiece at a time.

He always wears a suit. Not the stiff kind. Tailored, navy or charcoal, with subtle check patterns. The kind that whispers rather than shouts. The kind that makes you sit up straighter just being near it.

He orders an Americano. Never anything sweet. You know this because you’re close enough to hear him order, not because you’re listening. You’re not listening. You just… absorb things. By proximity.

He types like he means it. Fingers flying, brow furrowed. You once watched him for a full minute before realizing your tea had gone cold.

You don’t like him.

You don’t like that he’s taken your seat, your sunlight, your outlet. You don’t like that he seems to be having Important Conversations while you’re over here editing product descriptions for cat backpacks. You’re just about to settle for your second-best seat when disaster strikes.

Correction: Seungcheol strikes.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. With coffee.

It happens fast. One second, you’re adjusting your chair, the next, you feel a splat of lukewarm liquid soaking through the shoulder of your sweater. Your body jerks. Your mouth opens. Nothing elegant comes out.

“What the ever-loving fuck—” 

Seungcheol freezes. His cup is a crumpled paper carcass in his hand. The coffee is mostly on you, some on the floor, a tragic few drops clinging to his knuckles like guilt.

“I—oh no. No, no, no, I am so sorry,” he says, setting the mangled cup down like it might still be saved. “Are you okay? Did I burn you?”

There’s coffee dripping from your hair. “It’s fine,” you say, in the voice of someone who is not fine.

He winces. “That sounded like a lie.”

You glance down at your sweater. It was oatmeal-colored. Now it looks like oat milk with trauma. “I mean, no third-degree burns,” you say, standing. You shake your arm out. It flings a splatter onto a nearby bookshelf. “Just first-degree humiliation.”

He grabs a stack of napkins from the counter and starts dabbing at your sleeve with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb.

“You really don’t have to—” you’re saying, but Seungcheol is relentless. 

“No, I do. I definitely do,” he blabbers, all that usual composure gone like the coffee he’s unceremoniously splashed you with. “I’ve basically assaulted you with caffeine. This is… wow. This is not how I usually network.”

You blink at him. “Network?”

He goes still. “That was a joke. I’m joking. This is a joke. I mean, the situation, not your… sweater.” 

You raise an eyebrow.

He flushes. A subtle pink, but obvious. He has the decency to look horrified at himself. “Oh my God. I mean, your sweater was nice. It is nice. I’m just going to stop talking.”

“That would be nice,” you say curtly, and then immediately feel bad about it.

Because he looks sheepish now. His shoulders have gone all slopey. He holds out the last dry napkin like a peace offering. You take it.

Felix, equal parts amused and exasperated, leans over the counter. “Do we need the mop again?”

“I deserve the mop,” Seungcheol mutters underneath his breath.

It’s set in stone. You really, really don’t like him. 

To your surprise, he keeps coming back.

Seungcheol, that is. The man who ruined your sweater and your dignity in one well-aimed Americano.

He returns to The Greeting Committee like nothing happened. Only now, he avoids the window seat. In fact, he avoids your whole half of the café. Sits near the potted ficus, headphones in, coffee clutched like a holy artifact.

You’d almost feel bad if it weren’t kind of funny.

There’s a silent detente. You don’t glare at him anymore. He doesn’t knock beverages into your lap. You coexist. Cautiously. Like squirrels.

Until, one Tuesday, it happens.

You’re halfway through an editing gig that involves correcting SEO tags for eco-friendly deodorant when Felix  appears with a pastry on a plate and a too-big smile. “From your secret admirer,” he says, setting it down with a flourish.

You eye the pastry warily. It’s round. Golden. Gleaming with honey. A little too perfect. “Is this a trick?” you ask.

“It’s from the Suit,” Felix stage-whispers, as if Seungcheol is in witness protection and not six feet away, pretending not to watch. You glance over. Seungcheol immediately looks down at his phone.

Felix nudges the plate closer. “He said you looked like you needed something sweet.”

Your eyebrows do something complicated. You pick up the pastry. It smells good. Really good.

You take a bite. It takes three seconds.

One to register the taste. Two to realize there are slivers of almond inside. Three to remember, with crystal clarity, what it was like to be poked and prodded as a child so your allergies could be found out. “Oh no,” you say around a mouthful of the croissant. 

“Oh no, it’s the best croissant ever—right?” Felix beams. 

You cough. “Not exactly.” 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Seungcheol’s chair scrapes violently against the floor. He’s by your side in less time than it takes your throat to tighten. You don’t realize you’ve dropped the pastry, that your face is turning that brilliant shade of anaphylactic pink. Felix is already halfway to the back counter, yelling something about the EpiPen he keeps near the register just in case.

“Breathe slowly,” Seungcheol says frantically, crouching beside you. “Wait, no, don’t breathe slowly. Or do? Should you breathe faster?”

You wheeze out something that sounds suspiciously like I am going to fucking kill you. 

Your attempted murderer looks stricken. His tie is slightly askew again, like stress physically unravels him. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I swear. Almonds. Why is it always almonds?”

Felix returns with the EpiPen like a knight with a sword. You brace for it. Seungcheol turns paler than the foam on his usual coffee. After the injection, after the flurry, after the adrenaline kicks in and your lungs start acting like lungs again, you sit back against the chair, heart thudding against your ribs.

Seungcheol hovers beside you, holding a water bottle. You would jokingly ask if that, too, had some slow-moving poison, if Seungcheol didn’t look sufficiently spooked.  “You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod, sipping the proffered water. “Yeah. Could’ve used a warning. Or a label. Or maybe a pastry without biological warfare.”

His laugh is helpless. “I was trying to be nice.”

“You nearly killed me.”

“But nicely.”

Felix, wiping the counter, calls over, “On the bright side, at least he didn’t spill the water on you!”

You and Seungcheol both groan.

You return two days later with a tight throat and a new sweater. Dark green. Nut-proof in spirit, if not in textile.

The Greeting Committee is half full. Quiet, save for milk steaming and a playlist that leans too hard on acoustic covers. You pick your seat—the window, as always. Felix waves with both hands, sheepish. You wave back with one, cautious.

Seungcheol is already there.

This time, he’s at the counter, pacing lightly, muttering to himself while staring at the pastry display. He points at something. Felix nods with visible hesitation. There’s a to-go box involved. A whisper. A squint. This feels... coordinated. Conspiratorial.

You brace.

When he approaches, he holds out the box like it might explode.

“Hi,” he says, tentative. “I come in peace.”

You stare at the box.

“It’s carrot cake,” he adds quickly. “I checked. Three times. No nuts. No hidden almonds. No sabotage. I even made Felix read me the ingredients out loud.”

“Did he cry?”

“A little.”

You gesture for the box. Open it. The slice is thick, aggressively frosted, and improbably orange. It smells safe. “Carrot cake,” you repeat.

“I Googled ‘pastries least likely to kill someone with allergies.’ That was top three.”

“That explains the pacing.”

He sighs, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Look, I swear I’m not usually this... destructive.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mmm.” 

“I mean it. I’m a functioning adult. I have a job. A dry cleaner. A filing system.”

“A coffee-related injury and a near-death croissant would suggest otherwise."

“Okay. Fair,” he huffs. “Look, maybe this is just… the universe telling me to leave you alone.”

You stare at him blankly, as if trying to agree with the universe’s supposed assessment. He shrugs and keeps talking—does this man ever shut up?—trying for breezy. Failing. “I mean, clearly, we can’t exist in the same proximity without one of us needing medical attention or therapy.” 

That gets you. A laugh slips out, involuntary. Quick and warm. You try to catch it, but it’s too late.

He freezes. It happens so fast you almost miss it. His whole face softening. Like the sound surprised him. Like he hadn't planned for the possibility of your amusement.

He looks at you, dazed. Eyes a little wide. Mouth a little open. Like you’ve told him a secret without speaking. “That was a laugh,” he says with the sort of reverence that belongs in cathedrals instead of this overpriced coffee shop.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. You pick up your fork. Take a cautious bite of the cake.

Safe.

He watches like he’s waiting for a verdict from a judge on Culinary Class Words. You chew. Swallow. Say, “This might be your least disastrous attempt yet.”

His grin breaks, full and boyish. The sun cracking through storm clouds. “So you’re saying there’s hope for attempt four,” he breathes. 

“I’m saying,” you huff, “don’t push it.” 

You look out the window to hide the smile threatening to fill your face.

Seungcheol stays looking at you.

You have a routine. Five days a week. Headphones in. Laptop open. Coffee always lukewarm by the time you remember it.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, has a rhythm. Three days if the stars align. Never the same ones. He’s a Monday-Wednesday guy. Then a Thursday-Saturday surprise. He shows up like a plot twist, wearing button-downs and the kind of watch that says my meetings run looong.

You’ve learned to expect him, even if you don't expect anything from him.

The greetings are polite now. Nods. Small smiles. He no longer treats your existence like a delicate diplomatic situation. You no longer imagine stapling his tie to the table.

Progress.

Some days he takes calls near the door, pacing like he’s afraid someone will steal the air. Other times, he just stares at his screen, typing fast, deleting faster. Once, you caught him playing Wordle with the focus of a man solving a hostage crisis.

You don’t talk. Not really. But you know when he’s had a rough day—he stirs his coffee too hard and forgets to say thank you to Felix. And you know when he’s having a good one, because he hums under his breath, terribly off-key.

One rainy afternoon, everything else is full. You’re already settled in. Window seat. Usual latte. Document open. Rain tapping the glass in a rhythm that matches your brain.

Seungcheol stands in the middle of The Greeting Committee like a man who’s lost his passport. Scans the tables. Sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. He approaches, cautious. Like he thinks you might hiss.

“Hey. Uh.” He gestures vaguely at the table. “Can I—?”

You glance around. Nothing else is open. Sighing, you give a jerky nod of acquiescence. He exhales and slides into the chair across from you.

There’s a moment. Awkward. Familiar. Like two commuters who ride the same bus but never speak. He sets down his drink. The usual plain Americano—probably scalding, probably vindictive. You go back to your screen. He goes back to pretending not to watch you type.

Five minutes in, you sigh. He looks up from his company-issued MacBook. “Something wrong?”

“Just this client,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “Wants a brand voice that’s ‘youthful but ancient, fresh but nostalgic.’ Like a time-traveling Gen Z monk.”

He chokes on his drink. You glance at him, and he stumbles to explain, “Yeah. Just picturing a TikTok monk explaining skincare with Gregorian chants.”

You snort. It feels dangerous, this sharing. Even in passing. You type. He sips.

Time passes. The rain doesn’t. At some point, Felix drops off another slice of carrot cake. No note this time. Just a wink. Seungcheol catches your eye. “I figured it was safer than flowers,” he says with the shrug of a man trying to act calm, cool, and collected.

You poke your fork into the cake. “This your way of asking to sit here again?”

“I would never assume.”

“But you are assuming.”

He smiles, soft around the edges. “Only a little.”

You shake your head. Take a bite. Let the silence settle again. 

Not quite friendship. Not quite strangers. Something else. Something quietly growing between sips of coffee and shared space.

By late afternoon, the light slants golden through the windows, soft and syrupy. Your laptop screen reflects it back at you in glaring defiance. The carrot cake is half-eaten. The air smells like espresso and mild ambition.

You stretch. He cracks his knuckles. The silence has been comfortable, companionable—until he speaks. “So. Freelancing,” he says, testing the waters. “That’s just... vibing with deadlines?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from a guy who wears a wristwatch like it owes him rent.”

He lifts his coffee cup in a lazy toast. “Touché,” he hums. “But at least corporate structure keeps things predictable. Stable.”

“Stable? You get sixty Slack notifications an hour and call that stability?”

He winces. “Okay, yes. But there’s a paycheck. A health plan. A desk that isn’t being commandeered by an iced matcha spill.”

You level a look at him. “Are you judging my system?”

He glances at your spread: laptop, two notebooks, highlighters of questionable age, and a sticker-covered planner that might be more decorative than functional. “I would never,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins. “Okay. Mildly.”

“You color-code your calendar and get passive-aggressive about Outlook invites,” you taunt. 

“You wound me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Please don’t be mean to me,” he says, deadpan. “I get turned on when pretty girls are mean to me.”

The words hang in the air.

Your typing stutters. Seungcheol goes pale. Then pink. Then a shade of red that belongs in a fruit bowl. “That was—I didn’t—I meant it as a joke,” he stammers. 

You let out a low whistle. “Bold choice.”

“I panicked.”

You laugh. Loud, sudden, and unfiltered. It startles the couple next to you. Seungcheol looks like he might curl into his coffee mug and disappear. “Okay, okay,” you say, still smiling. “Let’s set some ground rules before this table implodes.”

He nods solemnly. “No horniness before five?”

“Four-thirty. I’m flexible.”

He exhales a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Understood.”

The sun slips lower. Your coffee is cold again. The world outside looks dipped in gold foil. Across from you, Seungcheol relaxes a little. You don’t look directly at him, but you know he’s smiling.

The next few weeks pass in soft edits.

No dramatic reveals. No sudden declarations. Just a slow, accidental choreography.

Seungcheol starts arriving earlier. Not every day, but often enough to make it a pattern. He never asks to sit with you. Not at first. He just hovers close, table-hopping like a caffeinated bee until one day he drops his laptop across from yours like it’s always been that way.

“Morning,” he says casually, as if this is not a minor emotional event.

“You’re in my eye-line,” you reply flatly.

“I’m in your heart-line,” he says, complete with finger guns and an exaggerated wink.

You blink.

He sips his coffee, very focused. “Sorry,” he grumbles, now appropriately shamed. “Still workshopping that one.”

It becomes a new bullet point in the routine. Shared table. Shared silence. Occasionally, shared WiFi when yours decides to enter a fugue state. Sometimes you squabble over seating. Sometimes you share pastries. Once, you both accidentally ordered the same scone and acted like it was a legal dispute.

“Just split it,” Felix suggested.

“Absolutely not,” you both said. (In the end, he let you have it.) 

Another time, Seungcheol caught you stress-doodling in the margins of your planner and started rating your sketches like a judge on a chaotic art show.

“This frog has emotional range.”

“That’s a pigeon.”

“Even better.”

The Greeting Committee becomes less a café and more a stage for the most low-stakes, high-tension sitcom known to man. One Thursday, though, Seungcheol brings someone with him.

You look up at the new arrival. Mid-twenties. Good bone structure. Nervous smile. The kind of person who says thank you twice just to be safe.

Seungcheol ushers her to a corner seat, sliding into professional mode like a second skin. Back straight. Voice low, reassuring. Hands used sparingly, deliberately. A talent he’s trying to recruit, you realize. 

He’s good at this. It shows.

You don’t eavesdrop. Not really. But your laptop screen is less interesting when he leans forward, nodding with the kind of attention that makes you feel seen by proxy.

You watch him talk about contracts and career growth like he believes in people. Like he sees possibility in them and is simply here to translate it to paper.

It makes you feel something.

Maybe admiration.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe the sudden realization that beneath the tie knots and tragic Americano habit, Seungcheol might actually be kind of brilliant.

He glances up mid-meeting and catches you watching. You look away, pretending to be fascinated by a blank spreadsheet. In the corner of your eye, you see him bite back a smile. 

Later, when the talent leaves, he slides into the seat across from you again, a little smug.

“You were staring.”

“I was judging.”

“You judge with very starry eyes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, but the heat in it is doused by whatever residual admiration you’ve been trying to fight down. 

“Too late,” Seungcheol sing-songs as he unpacks his things, readying to be your seatmate once more until five in the afternoon. “Already added it to my morning affirmations.”

It’s a Wednesday. The kind where the air smells like over-steamed milk and deadlines. The windows of The Greeting Committee are fogged at the edges, and the playlist is stuck somewhere between folk optimism and indie despair.

You’re halfway through your second coffee and the fourth paragraph of an email you’ve rewritten five times when Seungcheol walks in. He looks like someone who lost an argument with his alarm clock, his inbox, and possibly God.

His tie is loose. His hair is defying gravity in three directions. He drops his briefcase three tables away and immediately starts pacing with his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, I said the 17th, not the 7th,” he says, voice a low, stressed hiss. “Yes, because they’re filming in Thailand, not, I don’t know, the moon.”

He hangs up. Sits for all of five minutes. Stands. Sits again. Calls someone else. Wash, rinse, repeat.

You try to focus. You really do. But there’s something magnetic about watching a usually unflappable man unravel like a department store sweater. “Not worried,” you mutter to yourself, clicking back to your work. He’s fine. Just corporate molting. 

But then you hear him exhale. Hard. He rubs his eyes like the day is a contact sport, and you feel a twang of sympathy because you’re not a goddamn monster.

You walk up to Felix, who’s wiping down the espresso machine with the casual grace of someone who moonlights as a Disney prince. You slip him a five.

“What’s this for?”

“A carrot cake emergency.”

He glances at Seungcheol, eyebrows lifting.

“Make it look natural,” you add. “No obvious charity. Just… coincidence.”

Felix winks and executes the drop with spy-level precision. Mid-call, Seungcheol barely notices the plate until the scent catches up to him.

He pauses. Looks down. Then up, but not at Felix.

Right at you.

He smiles. Not the usual cocky smirk or the teasing grin. No. This one is quieter. Warmer. A tight-lipped gratitude that has your traitorous heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. 

He mouths, Thank you.

You raise your mug in reply.

He takes a bite. For the first time that day, his shoulders drop. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens. Like cake under a fork. The café hums around you—a gentle orchestra of foam, glass, and familiarity.

You go back to your laptop, a little smile playing on your lips. Still not worried, of course. Merely bservationally invested.

You pack up as the sun angles lower in the window, slanting gold across your keyboard. The drone of the café shifts with the hour. A quieter crowd now, more book than laptop, more wine than espresso. You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to melt into the early evening.

You’re halfway to the door when Seungcheol calls your name. He’s still at his table, carrot cake reduced to crumbs, a little less frazzled than before. He jogs to catch up, a hand running through his hair, trying and failing to tame it.

“Thanks,” he says, a little out of breath. “For the cake drop. Very subtle. Almost untraceable.”

You feign innocence. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe Felix just really likes you.”

“Yeah, he also gave me a drawing of a frog once. But I have a feeling this was you.”

You shrug. “I prefer plausible deniability.”

He smiles. That damned smile again. Not practiced, not perfect. Real. “It helped,” he confesses. “More than I thought it would.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward, more aware. Then he gestures toward the street. “You headed home? Want a ride?” he offers. 

For a flicker of a moment, you feel panic. Real, dumb, heart-skipping panic. It’s stupid, but there’s only so much changes to the routine that you can manage. 

You shake your head too quickly. “Oh—no, I’m good. I like the walk. Clears the head. You know. Air. Legs. Exercise. The usual.”

Seungcheol tilts his head to one side, amused. “Right. Wouldn’t want to deprive your legs.”

You wince. “That came out weird.”

“A little.”

You make a vague getaway motion with your thumb. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Or whenever your Google Calendar allows.”

He steps back with a hand over his heart. “Rejected. Brutally,” he says, probably half-serious in his petulance. “I’ll add it to the long list of things humbling me today.” 

You laugh, finally breathing again.

He grins. “Get home safe, leg defender.”

You toss him a wave as the door jingles shut behind you, the night warm and a little kinder than before.

The next time, though, it’s your turn to fray. 

Not frayed like the fashionable kind, like the artfully undone cuffs of your oldest hoodie. No. Frayed like a wire that’s been chewed on, left buzzing and dangerous, held together by the last threads of caffeine and hope.

You take your usual seat by the window, laptop open but untouched. There’s a tab open for invoices and another for a brand guideline doc you swear was written by an alien. The client has emailed five times since sunrise. Each message contradicts the last. You can’t even be mad anymore. Only tired.

The Greeting Committee smells like cinnamon and second chances. Felix slides your drink over with a gentle smile. It doesn’t help much.

Seungcheol arrives half an hour later, still slightly windblown, suit jacket over one arm. He spots you, hesitates, then sits at the table beside yours.

“Hey,” he says, carefully. “You look industrious.” 

You grunt.

He peeks at your screen. “Stressed from freelancing?” he says, aiming for a friendly jab. “Didn’t know that possible. I thought you’d have it easier, you know. Not having to deal with soul-crushing clients.”

It hits wrong. Off-key. The joke doesn’t land; it crash lands.

You glance up. Maybe he sees the sharpness in your jaw, the sheen in your eyes. Maybe not. You stand abruptly, chair scraping a little too loud against the floor. “Excuse me,” you say, voice too even.

You retreat to the bathroom. Lock the door. Breathe once. Twice. And then it happens.

Your chest caves, just a little. The tears come fast and hot. Not the kind you can blink away. These are stubborn, panicked, silent sobs. Messy ones. The kind you don’t want anyone to see.

You wash your face after. Pat your cheeks until they stop looking flushed, though they don’t. Your eyes are still red, like you lost a fight with a mascara wand and your own emotional stability. 

When you emerge, the café looks the same, but something has shifted. Seungcheol looks up immediately. He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches you, eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he started a sentence but forgot how to finish it. There’s none of his usual machismo. He just looks like someone kicked his favorite puppy.

You sit back down, mute. Felix gives you a glance, like he’s debating giving you a cookie. You shake your head. Not today.

Seungcheol clears his throat, shifts, but says nothing.

The silence is a kindness. So you let it be.

You go back to your screen and pretend to work. Seungcheol stays in his seat beside you. Quiet, still, and present.

He doesn't come by the next day. Or the one after.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet, your eyes flick to the door more than they should. There’s a particular flow you’ve both unconsciously followed, a choreography built of glances and coffee steam, shared space and sidelong banter. You miss it. Or him. Or whatever weird, ambiguous thing he is.

On the third day, though, he returns.

You feel him before you see him. His presence has a particular gravity, like someone dragged in a suitcase full of decisions and contradictions. He walks up, eyes careful, a coffee in each hand.

“Peace offering?” he says, nudging one cup toward you.

“Is it poisoned?” you ask, trying not to sound too pleased at his reappearance. 

“Only with charm and sincerity.”

You take it. He sits. Not at the next table. Not across the room. But right across from you. “Okay,” he says, settling in. “I want to understand what you do. Freelancing. The whole… lifestyle."

“You mean the glorious, cobbled-together hustle powered by imposter syndrome and caffeine?” you throw back, 

“Exactly,” he grins. “That.”

You peer at him. “Don’t you have a mountain of corporate souls to harvest today?”

He leans back, eyes closed dramatically. “Took an emergency leave.”

You stare. “An emergency leave. For freelance empathy research.”

“And because my boss told me I was breathing too loudly on calls. Also that I needed to stop quoting BTS lyrics in pitch decks. But yes. Research.”

You snort despite yourself. “Fine,” you say, gesturing to your screen. “Give me an hour. I have to finish this edit before my client finds another designer who doesn’t cry in public bathrooms."

He lifts both hands in surrender. “No rush. I’m just here to sponge up wisdom and avoid responsibility.”

You nod once, then dive into your screen, fingers tapping in a slow, precise rhythm. Every so often, you feel his gaze. Like he’s watching someone solve a puzzle he never knew existed. You finish the edit in record time, hit send, close your laptop with a satisfying click.

He perks up. “That it? Are we about to enter the magical world of self-employment lore?”

You stretch, then take a long sip of your not-poisoned coffee. “Welcome to hell, Seungcheol. There are no benefits, but sometimes people send you cheese in the mail."

He grins, eyes lighting up. “Sounds oddly romantic.”

“It’s a lifestyle of extremes.”

For the first time in days, the air between you feels loose again. You tell him all the details. The ability to work from wherever, at the price of the constant availability. The power to pick and choose your battles. The legal threats issued when you’re not paid on time. Seungcheol is expressive; he shuttles from amusement and horror every so often. 

As you close up your tirade, you rest your chin on your palm and squint at him over the rim of your cup. “So what are you like outside the nine-to-five costume party?” 

He hums. “Define ‘outside.’”

“The part of the day where you're not actively recruiting K-pop idols or quoting RM at your boss.”

He taps his fingers on the table, mock-pensive. “Well. I play padel.”

You actually flinch. “Of course you do.” 

“And indoor golf,” he adds, almost sheepish.

“You absolute LinkedIn man.”

He gasps, fake-offended. “Take that back.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you use Notion to organize your fridge.”

“That was one time. And the color-coding was inspired.”

You point at him, triumphant. “I knew it.”

He chuckles, leans in a little like he can't help it. “And what do you do outside of crying over client feedback and judging my recreational habits?”

“I doodle in margins. Watch bad reality TV and pretend it’s for character study. Occasionally rearrange my bookshelf like it’s therapy,” you answer as you roll your shoulders. 

He nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

You tilt your head. “You know, you’re very defensive about your Very Normal Corporate Hobbies.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“You answered like a man who has a separate gym bag just for tennis whites.”

“Only on weekends.”

You laugh, louder than intended. A few heads turn. Seungcheol watches you, smile stretching slowly, like he’s soaking it in.

“So,” he says, after a beat. “You want to know me, huh?”

You bite back a grin. “You’re the one who took emergency leave to decode the mysteries of my working habits.”

“But you’re asking the personal questions.”

You go to sip your coffee again but pause mid-air. Okay. Fair. You set your mug down. “Maybe I do. Want to know you.”

He blinks, surprised. You swear there’s a slight flush to his ears. “Wow,” he says, voice lighter. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s purely investigative.”

“Of course. For science.”

“For society.”

“For the greater good.”

You both grin into your drinks. For a moment, it feels easy again—like maybe you’re two people in a café, not an ironic universe crashing softly into each other. Just you, him, and the slow unfurling of something not yet named.

You start bringing extra pens, just in case he forgets his again. He never asks, but he always takes them, twirling the cap between his fingers as if it’s part of his pitch strategy. You pretend not to notice the way he always slides it back across the table when he leaves, perfectly aligned with your notebook.

He starts remembering how you like your coffee. Not the way you order it, but the way you drink it. When it should be sweet, when it needs to be strong. He doesn’t ask. Just shows up with a cup that tastes like exactly the kind of day you’re having.

Once, you swap playlists. He laughs at your affinity for melancholic ballads and sends you one too many motivational bops in return. You retaliate with obscure indie rock. He retaliates harder with vintage K-pop. It spirals quickly.

Your seating becomes a ritual. You gravitate toward each other like satellites, or maybe like rival planets that keep brushing orbits. Not always talking, but near. Comfortable in the shared silence of productivity, in the occasional sarcastic quip lobbed across laptops.

Then, one Thursday, you can’t make it. A meeting across town. A cousin’s birthday. Something outside the orbit. You don’t text. It’s not that kind of arrangement.

The next day, you return to The Greeting Committee, windblown and half-apologetic for reasons you can’t name. Felix greets you at the counter with a too-wide grin.

“Someone was a little antsy yesterday,” he says, sliding your usual across the bar.

Your brow furrows. “Antsy?”

Felix leans in, tone conspiratorial. “Your boy was pacing,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Kept checking the door like a golden retriever who lost his owner at the park. Ordered three espressos and didn’t drink any of them.”

You don’t even have the energy to clock Felix for calling Seungcheol your boy. You glance over to your usual table. Seungcheol is there. Head down. Pretending he can’t hear Felix. He’s gone stock-still.

You approach slowly. “Three espressos?”

Seungcheol already has his face buried in his hands. “I hate him,” he groans. 

You set your things down. “Were you worried about me?”

“I was... mildly alarmed that my study subject had vanished,” he mumbles. “For science.”

You grin at the now-inside joke. “For society.”

He squints at you from between his fingers. “I should’ve taken another emergency leave.”

“Better clear it with HR.”

He sighs dramatically, then glances at you. “Glad you’re back.”

Your heart stumbles. “Yeah,” you murmur, trying not to smile too much. “Me too.”

The day stays with you.

Like a bit of sugar stuck on your lip, or a phrase you can’t remember the origin of. It trails behind you into the evening, clings to your sweater the next morning, settles in the folds of routine. His face, half-horrified under Felix’s grin. The way he said glad you’re back. Too casual. Too real.

It sits beside you when he doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Or the three after that. By day six, you’ve graduated from confused to mildly insulted. Not that it matters. Not that you care. Not that you check the door every time it opens.

You try to reason with yourself. He has a job. A corporate one. With meetings. Flights. Possibly a high-stakes padel tournament. But still, the café feels off-kilter without him. Like one chair always pulled out too far.

Day eight, you’re settled into your seat—headphones in, deadlines glaring—when a shadow flits across your screen. You look up.

He’s back. Tan coat, navy slacks, guilty smile. Holding a coffee cup like a peace treaty.

You don’t look up again. Not really. Just enough to let him pass. You type a little more pointedly than usual. Sip your drink a touch too loud. “Okay,” he says eventually, dropping into the seat across from you with a sigh. “Are we doing this?”

You don’t stop typing. “Doing what?”

“This thing. Where you pretend not to notice me because I disappeared for a week.”

You arch a brow. “You disappeared?” you ask, even though the tick of your jaw gives away your feigned nonchalance. 

“I had a work trip,” he says, halfway exasperated. “I didn’t fake my own death.”

“Would’ve been less dramatic.”

He exhales a laugh, then leans forward, arms on the table. “You know, we could exchange numbers. Save you the emotional labor next time.”

You glance at him. He’s smirking. Just a little. But there’s a hopefulness under it, peeking out like socks that don’t match.

“You think I want your number?” 

“No. I think you want me to want your number.” 

You snort. You hate it when he’s right. Wordlessly, you hold out your hand; he stares at it like it’s some sort of bomb. 

“Phone,” you say dryly. “Before I change my mind.”

He fumbles it out, unlocking it with shaking fingers. You type in your number, add your name, and for no good reason, a croissant emoji. You hand it back. “There,” you huff. “Now next time you vanish, I can file a formal complaint.”

He grins, and it’s a little too wide for his face. A little too happy to be friendly. “I’ll have my people forward it to legal.”

You finally meet his eyes.

It feels like stepping into warm light.

Your phone buzzes, mid-sip, mid-scroll, mid-holding-back-a-yawn. A text. From Seungcheol. Who is, rather notably, sitting four feet in front of you.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:03 PM]: did you sleep last night or are you just naturally corpse-chic today?

You look up. He’s got the gall to raise his brows at you over his laptop, like he didn’t just insult you through cellular waves. Like this is normal behavior for a grown man in business casual.

You respond with a slow, deliberate middle finger under the table. He grins. Felix swats you both and murmurs something about children being around. 

The next day, Seungcheol does it again.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:25 PM]: is that your third cup? do i need to stage an intervention or just sponsor it as a startup?

This time, you reward him with a middle finger emoji. Something a little more permanent, and a lot less damning to Felix. Seungcheol’s responding cough is suspiciously laughter-adjacent.

It becomes a rhythm, a beat stitched between sips and keystrokes. You never text outside of The Greeting Committee. Not once. But inside its sun-drenched walls, with the clatter of cups and the low hum of indie folk, you have your own thread. A quiet thing. A private game.

Sometimes, it’s teasing.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:43 PM]: felix gave you the bigger muffin. favoritism.

Sometimes, it’s curious

Seungcheol ☕ [3:10 PM]: what are you working on today? looks serious. also your nose scrunches when you’re focused.

Sometimes, it’s borderline sentimental:

Seungcheol ☕ [5:04 PM]: i like mondays better now.

You don’t always respond.

Sometimes you just smile, or shake your head, or raise an eyebrow that says you’re on to him. Sometimes he takes that as victory. Sometimes he gets mock-wounded.

You pretend not to notice the way he watches your face light up, but you do. You always do.

You don’t know what to make of it—this strange little performance. This theater of text bubbles and muffled laughs. But your fingers start lingering over your phone when he walks in. Your heart bumps when it buzzes. You catch yourself rereading his old messages when he’s in the restroom.

You know it isn’t just caffeine making you giddy, no matter how badly you want to make the claim.

Seungcheol doesn’t come in one morning. You notice before the door finishes not opening.

Felix does, though, gliding past your table with a steaming latte and a smirk like he knows a secret. He wipes down the counter with theatrical flair before leaning over it to say, “So. Are you two ever going to get together, or should I just start a betting pool?”

You laugh. Too quickly. Too high. “We’re not—” You wave your hand in a vague gesture that means something like, Don’t be ridiculous, but also, maybe, Please don’t ask me that when I haven’t had my coffee.

Felix raises both eyebrows and hums. “Sure. Okay. Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You spend the next thirty minutes trying to focus on your screen and not on the vacant corner of the cafe where Seungcheol’s laptop usually glows and his stupid phone buzzes with texts he won’t say out loud. It’s like trying to work with half your keyboard missing. Or your second favorite limb.

Around lunchtime, when the loneliness gets just a touch too loud, you do something unhinged.

You open LinkedIn.

It starts off innocent. Curious, even. You want to see what he looks like in a professional headshot. You want to know if his job title is as unnecessarily long as you suspect. (It is. “Senior Talent Acquisition Specialist & Strategist, Creative Industries Division.” Ugh.)

You scroll through his accolades, which are infuriatingly impressive. Fluent in three languages. Led multiple region-wide talent campaigns. There’s a photo of him at some conference, smiling and mid-sentence, looking… God, competent. That’s, unfortunately for you, really hot. 

You hate how charming his bullet points are. You hate that he probably made a slide deck about them. You close the app. You reopen it. You check his endorsements.

And then, as you're packing up, phone zipped away, pretending like you haven’t spiraled into corporate espionage, your screen lights up.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: you know i have linkedin premium, right? i can see who views my profile.

Your soul leaves your body. You stop dead, laptop halfway into your tote. Another buzz.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: did you miss me that bad?

A third, before you can reply:

Seungcheol ☕ [2:23 PM]: you could’ve just texted, you little coward.

You type back with trembling thumbs.

You [2:25 PM]: You should be banned from the internet.

He sends a smirking emoji, and the emoji with hearts on the face. 

You hate him. You hate that you’re smiling. You hate that your heart is fluttering like it just got a calendar invite to something thrilling.

You slide your phone into your bag. It buzzes again. You leave it there. 

You don’t need to check it to know exactly who it is.

The next time you see Seungcheol, he’s already sitting at your table.

He has the audacity to look smug, half-grin tilting upward as you approach, coffee in hand and dignity in tatters. “Hope you found what you were looking for on my profile,” he says without preamble.

You set your cup down with deliberate care. “Actually,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him, “I did. Very informative. I especially liked the bit where you led a cross-functional recruitment initiative. That was hot.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he chokes on his Americano.

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your latte with practiced coolness. “What?”

He coughs into his sleeve. “Nothing,” he wheezes. “Just didn’t realize I had a fan.”

You tilt your head. “LinkedIn says you’re results-driven. I just wanted to see if you lived up to the branding.”

He goes very still. There’s a beat, then another, and then his ears go pink. It’s kind of glorious. He clears his throat, fiddling with the lid of his cup like it’s suddenly become complicated engineering.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. 

This, as in corporate flirting? “Immensely,” you chirp. 

He lifts his gaze just long enough to give you a look that says two can play this game, but not very well, apparently. “You know, I was going to bring you a croissant to make fun of you gently, but now I’m reconsidering.”

“Fear is the beginning of wisdom,” you say, quoting something you may or may not have pulled from a fortune cookie.

He groans softly, but there’s laughter behind it. There always is, lately. He looks at you a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment. You feel it, the shift—somewhere between banter and something gentler, something a little more reckless. But then he breaks the moment, leaning back with a crooked grin.

“Remind me to revoke your internet access,” he says.

“Try it,” you say. “I dare you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

The evening’s already blushing gold by the time Seungcheol says, “Let me walk you home tonight.”

It’s casual, tossed in like garnish. But there’s a new kind of weight to it. Not the kind that sinks, but the kind that anchors.

You sip the last of your lukewarm latte and reply, “Okay. But we’re walking. No car. It’s only twenty minutes, and you need the humility.”

He squints like you’ve personally offended his shin splints. “Twenty minutes? That’s practically cardio.”

You stand, grab your tote, and shoot him a look. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

He groans but follows, waving a lazy goodbye to Felix, who grins way too knowingly.

The air outside is warm with the memory of the sun. The streets are still holding onto their buzz, slow and syrupy. You walk side by side, his arm brushing yours just often enough to register. He doesn’t make a show of it. That would be too easy.

At the end of the block, you turn left instead of right.

Seungcheol pauses. “Hey. That’s not the way to your place. Unless you’re secretly living behind the dumpster.”

You shrug. “Need to make a stop.”

His eyes narrow. “Is this how it happens? You lure me out, make me walk, then finish me off behind a coffee shop? Classic femme fatale behavior.”

“Stop being dramatic,” you sigh. “I’m feeding someone.”

You lead him to the back of The Greeting Committee, where the air smells like cooling bricks and old pastries. There, curled beneath a battered crate and a weather-worn sign, is a stray tabby blinking lazily up at you.

“This is Pumpkin,” you say, crouching to pull a packet of wet food from your bag as if it’s completely normal to carry gourmet feline meals in a tote next to your charger and existential despair.

Seungcheol just stares. “You—what—is that tuna mousse?”

“Chicken and pumpkin puree,” you correct. “He has a sensitive stomach.”

The tabby slinks forward, mewling. You set the food down, and Pumpkin immediately goes to town. Seungcheol is still watching, expression somewhere between disbelief and awe. “You do this every day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Most days. Felix lets me stash a few cans under the sink. He pretends not to know.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, crouching beside you. His knees crack with such dramatic flourish you can't help but look at him. “I’m too young to make those sounds,” he mutters.

“Corporate life ages you.”

He glances at you. “So does pining after someone who makes fun of your LinkedIn.”

You pretend to study Pumpkin more closely. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, it is,” he says, and his smile feels like the first sip of something warm on a cold morning.

The two of you watch Pumpkin finish off his meal. You could probably get going, but you quite like seeing Seungcheol—immaculately pressed suit, Aventus Creed Seungcheol—crouched in a random alleyway, watching a cat with immense concentration. Makes him look more human, less robot. 

Pumpkin mewls appreciatively at you as he finishes off his meal. The stray gives Seungcheol a hiss that suspiciously sounds like a warning. It doesn’t really make sense until you get to your feet, Seungcheol in tow, and you realize he’s giving you a Look. The preemptive kind that warns of something ahead. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Like pet the cat even though he’ll hiss at you again?” you say, because it’s easier to joke about things than take anything seriously. 

He takes a breath. His gaze flicks to your lips. “Worse.”

And then, before you can ask, Seungcheol says, “Sorry,” like it’s the preamble to a crime scene, and leans in.

The kiss is not polite. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test or a maybe.

It’s the undoing of a thousand little silences.

Your back hits the wall. You let out a surprised sound, half laugh, half breathless awe. The alley smells like coffee grounds and rain-slicked pavement. His tie is the first casualty; you tug it loose and toss it over a bike rack without ceremony. Seungcheol groans into your mouth. His hands are warm and everywhere, grounding you while one of your legs hitch over his waist. 

You taste his Americano on his tongue, bergamot from his cologne, and something sharper that must be everything he hasn’t said. The way he kisses you like an overdue confession. You don’t stop to think about the logistics. Or the implications. Or whether Pumpkin the cat is scandalized.

You just think about how this man—who wears suits to cafés, who once made you cry with a poorly timed joke, who texts you across the room just to see you smile—is kissing you, like the world might end if he doesn’t.

Your breath is still caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat when he pulls back. Not fully, not even really. Just enough for air to cool your lips, for the night to slip between your mouths, for you to hear him say, between peppered kisses along your jaw and neck, “I’ve dreamt of doing that since the moment I saw you in that damn cafe.”

You let your head tip back against the brick wall. “You can’t call it love at first sight,” you murmur, voice wobbly but amused. “This isn’t some drama your company produced, Choi.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He says it with no real bite, his mouth still brushing against your throat. “But I’ve known I wanted to kiss you since I laid my fucking eyes on you, so what does that make me?”

You choke on a laugh. It bubbles between your ribs, tangled with the aftershock of his lips and the humiliating truth that you’d let him keep kissing you all night if he wanted.

Your fingers are still laced in the lapels of his coat. His hands—well, one is braced against the wall behind your head and the other has begun to roam with alarming curiosity, curling possessively at your waist, tugging you flush against him like he could make up for the months lost in one touch.

It’s reckless. A little indecent. Unwise in about seventeen different ways.

You kiss him again anyway, because you’re not a coward. But when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and your knees actually threaten mutiny, you pull back, panting, forehead resting against his.

“We can’t be like teenagers groping each other in an alleyway,” you whine. 

He grins widely, a little wild around the edges. “Why not?”

You push gently at his chest, which is about as effective as shoving a tree. “Because I live around the corner, and I have dignity.”

“Debatable,” he murmurs, but he steps back all the same. The loss is enough to almost make you sob. 

You grab his hand, and tug him along. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go make more questionable decisions in the comfort of my very adult, very allergy-safe apartment,” you manage. 

He hastily grabs his tie with his free hand. “If there’s carrot cake, I might propose.”

“There’s vodka in the freezer.”

“Close enough.”

The two of you make it to your apartment in record time, breathless and disheveled, a tangle of limbs that barely manages to key open the door. You’re laughing, the kind of laugh that shakes with adrenaline.

Your back hits the inside of the door before it even closes properly, and Seungcheol is already kissing you again. Less alleyway, more frantic prayer. His hands at your hips, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt, all coordination gone to hell.

“Wait… we should talk,” you try, mouth brushing against his as you speak. Your hands are on his collar, but your words are trying to wrangle the last of your common sense.

He nips at your jaw. “We will.”

Your jacket slips off your shoulders. His tie joins it on the floor. “Seungcheol,” you say with more force, stepping back as much as he lets you. “We can't make out for three episodes and then just forget to have a conversation."

His shirt is halfway undone, and his hair’s in beautiful, stupid disarray. He pauses then, forehead against yours. His breath is still shallow. So is yours. “You’re right,” he says. “This shouldn’t be like the dramas.”

Your heartbeat is in your throat. “So?” you choke out. 

He exhales. It rumbles against your sternum, where your bodies are still close enough to feel the echo. “So we do both. We kiss first, talk after. We do it all. As long as neither of us runs.”

Your hand stills against his chest. It would be the easiest thing to make a joke—say something coy, derail the tension with a smirk and a shrug. But Seungcheo’s eyes are honest in a way that leaves no room for denial. No games, no marketing language, no curated storylines. Just him, a man still half-dressed and fully sincere.

“Deal,” you decide, and then you kiss him again.

It carries you all the way to the couch, to the warmth of pressed skin and the ridiculousness of two adults trying not to knock over a lamp while tangled in each other. You tell yourself you’ll talk after. You will.

But right now, there’s nothing but the soft thud of clothes hitting your floor and the sound of Seungcheol whispering your name.

You wake up to sunlight smeared across your floor like a crime scene. The throw blanket is wrapped halfway around your thigh, a heel of it digging into the couch cushion. You blink. The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that knows something is missing.

Seungcheol is gone.

Not vanished. His shoes are gone, his jacket too, but he’s left a note. Folded in half and propped up against your half-empty water glass like a tiny paper tent.

Didn’t want to wake you. You looked criminally peaceful. Not running, just got dragged into an early meeting. I owe you coffee. And at least three kisses. Minimum. — Choi (Not A Flight Risk) Seungcheol

You stare at it for a beat too long. It’s charming. Earnest, even. The ink slightly smudged where he might’ve hovered too long over the word criminally. But your chest feels taut. Like a rubber band wound too tight around something soft.

Your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: i meant what i said. i’m not disappearing. Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: also, how do you feel about bagels? asking for a future breakfast. Seungcheol ☕ [7:22 AM]: also pt2: you drool in your sleep. it’s very cute.

You chuckle. Which turns into a sigh. Which turns into you setting the phone face down and pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

It’s not the leaving, exactly. You understand work. You understand early meetings and obligations and shoes that need to be polished. It’s the ache of the aftermath. The warmth of him still clinging to your sheets and skin, and the chill of the apartment now that he’s no longer in it.

How easily he’d done it. How easily he could still do it, if he wanted to. In the imminent future. 

You move through the morning like someone wearing someone else’s shoes. Make coffee, forget to drink it. Brush your teeth, stare too long in the mirror. You’re not angry. But there’s something like bitter lodged in the back of your throat, and it won’t quite go down.

Later, at your at-home desk, he sends a selfie from a conference room. Half his tie is undone, and someone’s arm is motioning animatedly beside him, blurred in mid-gesture.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:30 PM]: currently dying. cpr not required unless administered by you.

You do laugh. A little. Quietly. Still, the unsettled thing inside you rolls over, sighs. Unimpressed.

You wonder, absurdly, if he’s kissed anyone else like that in an alleyway. If he’s made out with a woman behind a coffee shop, all suit and stubble and soft declarations. If he’s left notes for other people, claiming they looked criminally peaceful.

You know it’s silly. But that doesn’t stop the wondering, or the weight of wanting more.

You text him back something flippant. Light. Exactly the tone he always teases you for having.

You [2:02 PM]: If you die in that meeting, I’m keeping your coffee points.

It earns you a photo of his exaggerated gasp, hand to chest like a silent movie star. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach where it has to. 

You don’t go to The Greeting Committee the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because you need a change of scenery. The café chairs were always a little too firm, anyway. And there are so many other places to try! Like that plant-filled co-working space that smells faintly of eucalyptus and overly ambitious startups. Or your kitchen table, which wobbles like it’s been cursed by a very specific and petty god.

But the truth is less glamorous. The truth is, you miss him. And missing him makes you squirm. You don’t know what to do with that kind of intimacy—the kind that follows you home, seeps into your dreams, and then sends you sweet messages about bagels as if it didn’t completely undo you.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:09 PM]: missing my coffee buddy. when am i seeing you again?

You reply an hour later.

You [5:10 PM]: Got a deadline this week. Might be a while.

The next day:

Seungcheol ☕ [6:19 PM]: i’m starting to think i hallucinated the whole thing. very elaborate dream. excellent production value. You [9:32 PM]: Definitely real. Probably. 87% sure.

You try a different café. The espresso tastes like regret. The barista spells your name with a Q. You spill oat milk on your notes.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:20 PM]: Thinking about filing a missing person report. You [10:13 PM]: I’m just very elusive. Like a fox. Or Carmen Sandiego.

You’re doing it. The dance. Light-footed and clever. Skipping across the surface before anything can pull you under.

But it gnaws at you. Not the silence, because there is none. Seungcheol still texts. Every day. A silly update. A selfie with an Americano. A picture of a squirrel he insists is giving him side-eye. It’s the consistency of it. The unrelenting sweetness. The way he keeps showing up, even if you don’t.

On the fifth day, your phone buzzes with something different.

Seungcheol ☕ [8:04 AM]: door.

You open the door in your worst t-shirt—a sleep-soft relic from a failed music festival, collar stretched, logo faded into oblivion. Seungcheol stands there like the dramatic ending to a mid-season K-drama. Tousled hair. Scowl on his face. Cardboard pastry box in one hand, a bouquet in the other that looks like it could finance a small wedding.

“Really?” he says, before you can even fake a good morning.

You blink. “Hi?”

He holds up the pastries, slightly tilted. A peace offering gone stale. “You’ve been dodging me like I’m a subscription service you forgot to cancel,” he deadpans. 

“You could've just texted again,” you mutter.

“I did. Several times. Look where that got me.”

You sigh and step aside. He brushes past, trailing the scent of espresso and patience thinned to a thread.

He places the pastry box on your counter and sets the bouquet down with exaggerated care. It doesn’t match your kitchen. Too pristine. Too blush-colored and wrapped in sheer paper that shimmers slightly. You resent it for being beautiful. For being from him.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” you say, arms crossing over your chest.

“Yeah, well.” He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t sure if I was showing up for a conversation or a war.”

You lean against the counter, the cold tile pressing into your hip. The kitchen feels too quiet, too bright. You think about the last few days and how you’ve been avoiding your usual coffee like it might burn more than just your tongue.

“I wasn’t trying to ghost you,” you say finally.

“No,” he agrees, watching you. “Just haunt me a little.”

There’s something too knowing in his tone, but not unkind. He isn’t angry. Just... here. Uninvited and stubborn and still charming in a very irritating way. 

“I needed time,” you offer. It sounds thinner out loud than it did in your head.

“Time I can do,” he shoots back, “but disappearing without telling me why? Not really my favorite genre of heartbreak.”

You glance at the pastries. At the bouquet. At him. He looks ridiculous. And sweet. And maybe a little scared under all that posturing. “Fine,” you say. “We can talk.”

You set the kettle on the stove. He takes a spot on your counter stool.

You make the tea to buy yourself time. Seungcheol doesn’t press, just watches, elbows on the counter and jaw tucked into his hand like he’s willing to wait forever or until the kettle screams.

It does, eventually. You pour the water. Set down mugs. Curl your fingers around yours like it might anchor you.

“I just… I don't know what we're doing,” you say, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of your tea. “It feels like two people on opposite tracks pretending they aren’t going to crash into something.”

Seungcheol exhales a soft laugh, more breath than amusement. “You think we’re crashing already? We haven’t even started anything.” 

“That’s the problem,” you say, glancing at him. “You wear suits. You chase clients. You probably have a skincare fridge and a Google Calendar color-coded within an inch of its life.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just sips his tea and lifts an eyebrow like, And?

You press on. “I work out of cafes. I write brand copy for sock companies and only recently stopped paying my rent late. I have... retroactive jealousy issues.”

“Retroactive?”

“Like, I’ll be jealous of things that happened before I even knew you.”

He stares at you for a minute. Then: “That is both deeply irrational and weirdly flattering.”

You groan into your tea.

“Okay,” he says, putting the mug down. “Full honesty? I don’t even really like The Greeting Committee.”

Of all the things Choi Seungcheol could have said in that moment, that was not the one you were expecting.

Your head snaps up so fast, you’re surprised your neck didn’t damage somehow. “What?” you stammer. 

“Yeah,” he grimaces. “Their lattes are overpriced and their playlist is one bad Sufjan Stevens song away from sending me into a spiral.”

You’re scandalized. “You—you’ve been coming there for months!”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Because the first day I walked in, I saw you by the window. Eyes on your screen, hair in that ridiculous little claw clip, frowning like the fate of the world depended on a semicolon. And I thought, holy shit. There goes my weekday.” 

You want to scoff. You want to melt. Instead, you accuse, “So you treated me like a talent to chase.” 

His head snaps back. “Oh my God,” he says, nearly knocking over his tea. “Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like I had a casting binder labeled ‘Girl In Cute Sweater By Window.’”

“I mean—”

“I liked you. I like you. And every time I tried to talk to you, you dodged me like I was pitching a pyramid scheme. What else was I supposed to do?”

You falter. Your mug has gone cold. Your pulse has not. “Maybe,” he continues, quieter now, “if you weren’t so busy building exits in your head, you’d see I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him. Earnest. Exasperated. Still holding on. He stares back at you, and he must find something there underneath all the frazzled panic and the indignation. He must see it. Whatever you can’t say, hiding just right on the surface. 

You don’t know who leans in first, but your nose bumps his, and neither of you laugh. Not at first.

Your lips find his, soft and familiar, and then softer still when he sighs against your mouth. It’s unfair, how easily kissing him feels like home. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before and you’ll do it again, again, again.

Your hand fists the back of his collar, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish for another meeting, or for some other girl by the window who catches his eye.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you murmur between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, his cheekbone. “But you wear nice shoes and own stock options and know how to pronounce ‘acquisition’ without choking on your own tongue.”

He chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You’re literally straddling me right now,” he grunts, hands already roaming over your curves. “Do you really want me to start listing your resume?”

You ignore that. Instead, your voice comes out in one of those flurried half-whispers, tangled in the haze of heat and nerves. “Sometimes I make up fake ex-girlfriends of yours in my head so I can stop wanting you so much,” you confess. You’re already on a roll. Might as well keep going. 

He pulls back briefly to look at you. “You…. what?”

You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “They’re really pretty in my imagination. The type that remember to water their plants and own matching socks.”

He laughs, full and honest, and rests his forehead against yours. “Do the fake ones also haunt The Greeting Committee?” he teases. “Or just the real ones you make up to ruin your own day?”

You swat at his shoulder, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss there, which only melts you more. “I’m a freelancer,” you babble. “I can’t even guarantee what my income will look like next month. I eat leftovers three times a week. My savings account cries itself to sleep.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for your benefit. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He threads his fingers through your hair, his voice low. “You think I didn’t bribe Felix for your schedule, so I could time my work-from-home’s around you?” 

“That makes you sound like a stalker.” 

“A handsome one. Who brought pastries and a ninety dollar bouquet.” 

“Was it really necessary to mention the price of the flowers?” 

“Why the fuck are we even still talking right now?” 

You kiss him again before you can say something overly earnest. He kisses back with the kind of conviction that feels like a vow. Hands wandering. Shirts lifting. Breathless little nothings in between.

“Wait,” he murmurs, as you fumble backward, hand on his belt buckle. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You gesture vaguely to the left. “Through the hallway. First door. Don’t judge my laundry basket.” 

“I won’t judge,” he says, hauling you up bridal style without warning. You yelp. He grins and nips at your earlobe. “But if you keep making up fake girlfriends, I might have to fight one in a dream.” 

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing and mortified and a little bit in love.

That guy who used to always be in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s still not your seat. The Greeting Committee hasn’t suddenly been overtaken by bureaucracy and gold nameplates. But it doesn’t matter. You’re at the same table now.

Window seat, second from the left, with sunlight that softens instead of sears. An outlet for both your laptop and your lingering cynicism, and enough ambient chatter to feel alive without being overwhelmed.

Seungcheol is there. Across from you. Laptop open, tie conspicuously absent, sleeves rolled up like he’s auditioning for the part of everyone’s favorite approachable CEO. He’s editing something, you think. Or maybe pretending to. Every few minutes, he looks up like he’s going to say something, then doesn’t. 

When you finally glance at him over the rim of your coffee cup, he gives you that smile—the one that says, I can’t believe you picked me.

Felix brings a blueberry scone cut neatly in half. “For my favorite couple,” he announces, loud enough for the older woman at the neighboring table to coo in amusement. You groan. Seungcheol winks.

“We’re not your couple, Felix,” you mutter.

“You literally are,” Felix says, already walking away. “I made the bouquet for your first fight makeup. I’m emotionally invested now.”

You shoot Seungcheol a look. He raises both hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell him anything! He just knows things. Like a romance bloodhound.”

You roll your eyes and nudge half the scone toward Seungcheol. His fingers brush yours, deliberate and warm. You’re still getting used to that. The small intimacies. The way he lingers now.

How your things have started to mix at each other’s places: his tie in your laundry bin, your socks peeking out from under his couch. How he texts you silly memes during meetings and starts grocery lists in your Notes app like it’s always been shared.

There are days you still trip over the difference between solitude and comfort. Days when you want to crawl back into your shell of low-stakes independence and low-commitment caffeine. Days you remember all the reasons you told yourself not to do this.

That he’s too polished, too stable, too everything-you-aren’t. That he comes from a world of network pitches and tailored blazers and you, on some days, can barely remember if you own an iron.

But then he smiles across the table like you’re not a gamble, just a good choice. And it becomes easier.

Seungcheol leans in a little, conspiratorial. “What do you think Felix would do if I kissed you right now?”

You glance toward the counter. Felix is absolutely watching. “Probably write about it in his next customer newsletter.”

“Worth it.”

You kick Seungcheol lightly under the table. He nudges back, grinning. There’s a softness to his grin now. He’s not just amused; he’s grateful. You catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his thumb taps idly on the side of his mug like it wants to be touching you instead.

You pretend to read something on your screen. Seungcheol pretends to work on his edit. It’s mostly an excuse to sit in your shared silence, warm and companionable.

It’s not official. No brass plaque. No velvet rope. But it’s understood. It’s set in stone.

You might really, really like Choi Seungcheol after all.

[eviyum]

No thoughts head empty just Ahn Hyeoseop

[armandgender]

donald trump will die on july 20th 2025 at 1pm pacific standard time

[sparkly-trashfire]

Like to charge, reblog to cast

[coupsiesss]

who the FUCK has been gatekeeping this

SCOUPSSSSSSSSS WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKKKK

[xuchiya]

my itch to say this, and I don't like it... I'm noticing now how many times I repeated the music and one thing for certain, how Yeosang doesn't have many lines on 'Lemon Drop'.

HE IS UPSET AND IT CAN BE SEEN DURING THE VIDEO CHANT!!! KQ WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING RIGHT NOW?!!

Don't even start with me on "He has lines on the other songs" BULLSHIT ... HE BARELY SMILES— HELL HE DIDNT EVEN LOOK SO CHEERFUL DURING THE VIDEO AND YOU'LL ANSWER WITH ME THAT?!

Spare me the other curse I want to throw at you KQ but the next time you mistreated your employee, I hope to God I pray every night would grant my prayers that you fix your gaddamn minds.

Yes, I'm pissed. More than pissed. Yeosang is also an artist—it IS his passion and dream to be an artist, and you are slowly taking the light away from him. So fuck you.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

i would give you the moon

part 1: if i could give you the moon

choi seungcheol x reader ll 6k words

The Tuscan countryside stretched endlessly before them, rolling hills painted in shades of gold and amber under the late afternoon sun. She pressed her face to the window of the spacious fourteen-seater van, watching vineyards blur past as Mingyu navigated the winding roads with surprising skill for someone who had insisted he was "not comfortable with European driving."

"Are we there yet?" Soonyoung whined from somewhere in the middle rows, his voice muffled by the travel pillow he'd been clutching since they left Florence three hours ago.

"You asked that five minutes ago," Wonwoo replied without looking up from his book, seated near the back. "The answer is still no."

"But I'm dying," Soonyoung continued dramatically. "Actually perishing from boredom and car sickness."

"You're not car sick," Jihoon pointed out dryly from his seat. "You're just impatient. There's a difference."

She turned slightly in her seat—positioned in the second row with Chan and Jun—to face the familiar chaos behind her, grinning at the dynamic that hadn't changed even after all these years. The group had never really lost touch with her during her New York years, though their communication had naturally lessened with the demands of her career and the time difference. Video calls became monthly instead of weekly, group chats filled with inside jokes she sometimes missed, but the foundation of their friendship had remained solid. When she'd finally made the decision to return to Seoul, it was like slipping back into a favorite sweater—different, perhaps a bit looser in some places, but fundamentally unchanged in all the ways that mattered.

"According to the GPS, we should be there in twenty minutes," Seungcheol announced from the passenger seat, turning to catch her eye with a warm smile.

"Thank god," Hansol muttered from his position near the window. "I don't think I can handle much more of Seungkwan's travel commentary."

"My commentary is educational!" Seungkwan protested from his seat behind them. "Did you know that Tuscany produces over 350 million bottles of wine per year?"

"You got that from the guidebook you've been reading for the past hour," Joshua said with fond exasperation, his voice carrying from the back where he sat with Jeonghan and Minghao.

"Knowledge is knowledge, Josh."

The villa came into view as they crested a hill, and collective sounds of appreciation filled the van from all fourteen passengers. It was everything the rental photos had promised and more—a sprawling stone structure with terracotta roofs, surrounded by olive groves and overlooking a valley that seemed painted by some divine hand.

"Okay, this is actually incredible," Seokmin breathed from his spot in the third row, his usual enthusiasm breaking through any attempt at being cool.

"Seungcheol hyung has good taste," Minghao added.

As Mingyu carefully maneuvered the large van into the circular drive, her phone buzzed with a text from her assistant back in New York: Partnership approved. Seoul office opening confirmed for next year. Congratulations, boss.

Unable to contain her smile.

The Seoul office had been her proposal, her way of bridging the life she'd built with the life she wanted. Leading the Korean expansion meant she could be based in Seoul permanently while maintaining her hard-earned position with the firm.

"Good news?" Seungcheol asked, noticing her expression as Mingyu put the van in park.

"The best," she confirmed, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "I'll tell you later."

The next hour was a blur of unpacking, room assignments (which led to an elaborate rock-paper-scissors tournament when everyone wanted the room with the best view), and Mingyu immediately investigating the villa's kitchen like a man on a mission.

"This is a proper kitchen," he announced with satisfaction, running his hands over the marble countertops. "I can work with this."

"Please tell me you're not planning to cook every meal," Jeonghan said from the doorway, though his tone was hopeful. "The local restaurants—"

"Will be experienced, yes, but you'll appreciate my cooking more after trying to navigate Italian menus for a week straight," Mingyu interrupted with characteristic confidence.

"Speaking of navigation," Seungkwan chimed in, "did anyone else notice how Seungcheol hyung spent two hundred euros on that specialty olive oil collection yesterday? And the wine? And don't even get me started on the cheese selection."

"It's called supporting local artisans," Seungcheol defended, though his ears were turning slightly pink.

"It's called hyperfixation," Jihoon said with amusement. "Remember when you discovered that handmade soap maker and bought enough to supply a small hotel?"

"Or the month you decided you were going to become a coffee connoisseur and bought three different espresso machines," Joshua added with a grin.

She found herself laughing at the familiar teasing. This was exactly the kind of thing she'd missed during her years in New York—the way they all knew each other's quirks and habits, the comfortable ribbing that came from years of friendship.

She found herself on the terrace with a glass of wine, watching the sun begin its descent toward the horizon. The view was breathtaking—endless rolling hills dotted with cypress trees, vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see, and in the distance, a medieval town perched on a hilltop like something from a fairy tale.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Seungcheol appeared beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.

"Just thinking about how surreal this all feels," she admitted, leaning back against his chest. "A year ago, I was working sixteen-hour days in Manhattan, convinced I had my life figured out. The group felt so far away, even though we texted and called."

"And now?"

"Now I'm in Tuscany with my boyfriend and his twelve chaotic best friends, about to open my office in Seoul, and somehow it feels more right than anything I've ever done. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

She felt him smile against her hair. "I love hearing you call me your boyfriend."

"What else would I call you? My partner in crime? My significant other? My—"

"Your devastatingly handsome and charming companion?" Seungcheol suggested, making her laugh.

"I was going to say 'the man who hyperfixates on artisanal everything and then buys enough to stock a small boutique,' but sure, we can go with devastatingly handsome." Seungcheol rolls his eyes playfully.

"You know," Seungcheol said thoughtfully, "I never thanked you properly for coming back."

She turned in his arms to face him. "You don't need to thank me for choosing what makes me happy."

"Still." His expression grew serious, the playful teasing replaced by something deeper. "I know it wasn't an easy decision. You had a good life in New York."

"I had a successful life in New York," she corrected. "There's a difference. Good requires more than just professional achievement. And I missed this—missed all of you. The group chats and video calls helped, but they couldn't replace actually being here."

Before he could respond, the terrace door burst open and Soonyoung stumbled out, dramatically clutching his chest.

"I'm being attacked!" he announced. "Betrayed by my own friends!"

"What did you do now?" she asked, amused.

"Nothing! I simply suggested that we should explore the local nightlife tonight, and they're all acting like I proposed we sacrifice someone to the wine gods!"

"Didn't you also suggest we rent motorcycles and race through the vineyards?" Jun pointed out, following Soonyoung onto the terrace with several of the others trailing behind.

"That was a separate, equally valid suggestion!"

"Absolutely not," Seungcheol said firmly. "I'm not explaining to your insurance company why you're in an Italian hospital."

"Or to your mother," she added, which made Soonyoung visibly pale.

"Okay, fine, no motorcycles. But we're definitely going to that wine bar in town. I've been researching—"

"Since when do you research anything?" Jihoon interrupted.

"Since I discovered they have wine tastings paired with live music, and I heard there might be karaoke."

This got everyone's attention. The group's love of karaoke was legendary, rivaled only by their competitiveness about it.

"Now you're speaking my language," Seungkwan said, perking up immediately.

"I call dibs on the first duet!" Seokmin announced.

"With who?" Hansol asked. "Because I'm not doing 'My Heart Will Go On' again. I still haven't recovered from last time."

As the group dissolved into animated discussions about song selections and whether Seokmin would once again attempt to hit Mariah Carey's high notes, she caught Jeonghan watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said with a small smile. "Just nice to see you both like this."

"Like what?"

"Happy. Settled. Like you've found your rhythm."

She glanced at Seungcheol, who was currently being dragged into a heated debate about whether Bruno Mars songs were appropriate for group performances, and felt her heart swell with affection.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think we have."

♡

The wine bar in town was everything Soonyoung had promised and more. Tucked into a narrow street in the medieval quarter, it was intimate and warm, with exposed stone walls lined with bottles and a small stage where a local musician was playing acoustic covers of Italian classics.

They'd somehow managed to commandeer three tables in the corner, probably helped by Jeonghan's supernatural ability to charm his way into any situation and Joshua's surprisingly fluent Italian. The wine was flowing, the conversation was animated, and she was currently watching Minghao attempt to explain modern art to a very confused but enthusiastic local who spoke no English and minimal Korean.

"He's using hand gestures," she observed to Wonwoo, who was sitting beside her documenting the chaos with his camera. "I think he's trying to illustrate the concept of abstract expressionism through interpretive dance."

"Should we intervene?" Wonwoo asked, though he was clearly enjoying the show too much to actually move.

"Let's see how this plays out."

At the next table, Seungkwan was deep in conversation with an elderly Italian woman who had apparently decided he was her new grandson and was attempting to teach him how to properly twirl pasta. His technique was... ambitious.

"No, no, amore," the woman was saying, guiding his hands. "Like this, see? Gentle, like you're dancing with the spaghetti."

"Dancing with the spaghetti," Seungkwan repeated seriously, as if this was the most important lesson he'd ever received.

"I'm getting secondhand embarrassment," Jihoon muttered, but he was smiling as he said it.

"Are you kidding? This is gold," Hansol said, discretely filming the pasta lesson on his phone. "This is going in the group chat forever."

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find Seungcheol behind her chair.

"Walk with me?" he asked, and something in his voice made her look at him more closely. He seemed... nervous? Which was unusual for him.

"Everything okay?"

"Perfect," he said, but his smile was slightly strained. "Just want some air."

She followed him out of the wine bar and into the narrow cobblestone street. The night was warm, with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby. Above them, strings of lights connected the medieval buildings, creating an almost magical atmosphere.

"This is beautiful," she said, looking around at the ancient stone facades and arched doorways. "I can't believe places like this actually exist."

"It feels like something out of a fairy tale," Seungcheol agreed, though he seemed distracted.

They walked in comfortable silence toward the town square, where a fountain bubbled quietly in the center and a few late-night couples sat on benches sharing gelato. The whole scene was impossibly romantic, like something designed to make people fall in love.

"So," she said as they sat on the edge of the fountain, "what's the real reason we're out here? Because you've been acting weird all day."

Seungcheol laughed, running his hand through his hair. "Am I that obvious?"

"To me? Yes. You get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're overthinking something."

He touched his forehead self-consciously. "I do not."

"You absolutely do. You're doing it right now."

For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression soft in the warm light from the street lamps. Then he seemed to make a decision.

"There's something I need to tell you," he began, and her heart skipped slightly at his serious tone.

And before she could ask what, he was sliding off the fountain edge and onto one knee in front of her.

Time seemed to stop.

"Oh my god," she whispered, her hands flying to her mouth.

"I know this might seem fast," Seungcheol began, his voice slightly shaky but determined. "We've only been officially together for six months. But the truth is, I've been in love with you for years."

From his pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box, and her heart hammered against her ribs.

"I know you value your independence, and I would never ask you to give that up. But I want to build a life with you. I want to support your dreams and share your successes and be there for all the moments, big and small. I want to give you everything I can, including my heart, my name if you want it, and my promise that I'll spend every day trying to deserve you."

He opened the box, revealing a ring that made her breath catch. It wasn't ostentatious or flashy—it was elegant and classic, with a single diamond that caught the light from the fountain and threw tiny rainbows across her hands.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, and his voice broke slightly on the last word.

For a moment, she couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Could only stare at this man she loved, kneeling in a medieval Italian square under a canopy of stars, offering her everything she hadn't even known she wanted.

"Yes," she whispered, and then louder, "Yes, of course, yes."

The smile that broke across his face was radiant as he slipped the ring onto her finger with trembling hands. It fit perfectly, and she had a fleeting thought that he'd probably conspired with someone to figure out her size.

Then he was standing and she was in his arms, and they were kissing as if their lives depended on it, as if the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this fountain, this promise they were making to each other.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless and grinning, she became aware of noise from somewhere nearby. Cheering, specifically.

She looked around and saw, to her complete lack of surprise, twelve familiar figures poorly hidden behind various architectural features around the square. Soonyoung was barely concealed behind a lamp post that was half his width, while Seungkwan had apparently decided a small decorative shrub was adequate cover.

"Did you plan this?" she asked Seungcheol, though she was laughing as she said it.

"They insisted on being here," he admitted. "Something about 'witnessing the moment' and 'making sure I didn't mess it up.'"

"We couldn't hear what you were saying!" Mingyu called out, abandoning all pretense of hiding. "But we saw the ring! And the kissing! So we're assuming it went well!"

"She said yes!" Seungcheol announced, and the square erupted in cheers and applause, not just from his friends but from the few other people enjoying the evening who had apparently been drawn into the romantic drama.

Suddenly she was being engulfed in hugs from twelve over-excited men, each offering congratulations and commentary.

"I knew it!" Jeonghan declared. "I called this months ago!"

"The ring is perfect," Joshua added. "Very classic, very you."

"Can I be the wedding planner?" Seungkwan asked. "Because I have ideas. So many ideas."

"Absolutely not," she and Seungcheol said in unison, which only made everyone laugh harder.

"We're buying champagne," Jun announced. "The good stuff. This calls for celebration."

"We're in Italy," Hansol pointed out. "Shouldn't we be drinking Italian wine or something?"

"Champagne is universal for engagements," Seokmin said with authority. "It's like... engagement law."

As the group began debating beverage choices and dragging them toward what appeared to be the only shop still open at this hour, she caught Seungcheol's hand.

"Hey," she said, making him pause.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. And not just because you managed to coordinate a proposal with twelve witnesses without me suspecting anything."

"Though that was pretty impressive," he said with a grin.

"It really was. But mostly I love you because you see me—all of me—and somehow decided I was worth keeping."

His expression softened. "You're worth everything," he said simply. "And I'm going to spend the rest of our lives making sure you know that."

From somewhere ahead of them, Soonyoung was loudly explaining to a confused shopkeeper why they needed "the most romantic champagne you have" while Jihoon tried to translate and Seungkwan provided unnecessary commentary on proper celebration etiquette.

"Our lives are going to be chaos, aren't they?" she observed.

"Absolute chaos," Seungcheol agreed. "Are you okay with that?"

She looked at the ring sparkling on her finger, then at the man who'd given it to her, then at their ridiculous, wonderful friends who were currently causing a minor scene in an Italian wine shop.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said, and meant every word.

♡

The celebration back at the villa had taken on a life of its own. What started as champagne toasts on the terrace had evolved into something much more elaborate and wonderfully chaotic. Someone—probably Soonyoung—had discovered that the villa's sound system could connect to phones, and suddenly the terrace was filled with music ranging from romantic ballads to upbeat dance tracks.

"This calls for a proper celebration dance!" Seokmin announced, appearing with two bottles of the expensive champagne they'd somehow convinced the shopkeeper to part with despite the language barrier.

"Oh no," she said, laughing as she recognized the mischievous glint in his eyes. "We are not doing this."

"We absolutely are doing this," Seungkwan chimed in, already moving furniture to create more space on the terrace. "It's your engagement party! There has to be dancing!"

Before she could protest further, someone had changed the music to something slow and romantic, and Seungcheol was extending his hand to her with a look that made her heart flutter all over again.

"May I have this dance, fiancée?" he asked, the word rolling off his tongue like he'd been waiting years to say it.

"That's going to take some getting used to," she admitted, but she took his hand anyway.

As they began to sway together under the string lights that adorned the villa's terrace, she became aware that their friends had formed a loose circle around them, champagne glasses in hand, watching with expressions ranging from fond amusement to barely contained emotion.

"This is so embarrassing," she murmured against Seungcheol's chest, but she was smiling as she said it.

"This is perfect," he corrected, spinning her gently. "Though I have to admit, I hadn't planned for twelve audience members."

"You love it and you know it," she accused. "You've never been able to resist being the center of attention."

"Only when the attention involves you," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made her look up at him.

The music shifted to something more upbeat, and suddenly the rest of the group was joining them on the makeshift dance floor. What followed was a chaotic, joyful mess of celebration that perfectly captured the essence of their friend group—competitive dance-offs between Soonyoung and Jun, Seungkwan attempting to teach the Italian pasta lady's grandson (who had apparently been invited to join the party) some traditional Korean moves, and Jihoon pretending to be annoyed while secretly filming everything.

"Look at Minghao," she laughed, pointing to where he was engaged in what appeared to be an interpretive dance battle with Hansol. "I think he's trying to express the concept of eternal love through contemporary movement."

"Is that what that is?" Seungcheol asked, watching as Minghao executed a particularly dramatic spin. "I thought he was having some kind of artistic crisis."

The champagne flowed freely, loosening inhibitions and amplifying the joy that seemed to permeate the warm Italian air. Joshua had somehow produced a guitar from thin air and was providing live accompaniment to Seokmin's increasingly ambitious vocal performances, while Wonwoo documented everything with the dedication of a professional photographer.

"We're going to have the most ridiculous engagement photos," she observed, watching him capture a particularly unflattering moment of Soonyoung attempting what appeared to be a breakdancing move.

"The best kind," Seungcheol agreed, pulling her closer as the music slowed again. "The kind that actually show how we felt in this moment."

As the night progressed and the champagne worked its magic, the celebration took on an almost dreamlike quality. Stories were shared, ranging from embarrassing childhood memories to heartfelt speeches about love and friendship. Jeonghan, ever the sentimental one when alcohol was involved, gave an impromptu toast that left half the group in tears.

"To Seungcheol," he said, raising his glass with slightly unsteady hands, "who never gave up hope, even when the rest of us thought he was being ridiculously optimistic. And to our dear friend, who was brave enough to come back and claim the love that was waiting for her all along."

"Yah, you're going to make me cry," she protested, but her voice was thick with emotion.

"Good tears," Mingyu added, appearing beside them with another bottle. "The best kind of tears."

The dancing continued well into the night, evolving from romantic swaying to energetic group choreography as someone inevitably suggested they attempt to recreate music video dance moves. The results were hilarious and would undoubtedly provide blackmail material for years to come.

"I can't believe we're doing this," she gasped, trying to keep up with Soonyoung's increasingly complex choreography while champagne made her coordination questionable at best.

"Believe it," Chan laughed, nearly colliding with Jun during a particularly ambitious turn sequence. "This is your life now. This is our life."

"Our chaotic, wonderful, absolutely ridiculous life," she agreed, catching Seungcheol's eye across the terrace as they attempted to form some kind of human pyramid that was doomed to failure.

When the pyramid inevitably collapsed in a tangle of limbs and laughter, and the champagne finally began to take its toll on even the most energetic members of their group, the celebration gradually wound down to quiet conversations and contented sighs.

She found herself back in Seungcheol's arms, both of them slightly dizzy from alcohol and dancing, watching their friends slowly begin to drift toward their rooms with promises to continue the celebration over breakfast.

"Best engagement party ever," she declared, her head spinning pleasantly as she looked at the ring that seemed to catch every bit of light on the terrace.

"Wait until you see what I have planned for the wedding," Seungcheol said with a grin.

"Oh god, what are you planning?"

"Nothing too crazy," he assured her, though his expression suggested otherwise. "Just... maybe rent out a small castle. Nothing major."

"Seungcheol!"

"What? It's our wedding! It should be special!"

As their friends called out final congratulations and goodnights, disappearing into the villa with varying degrees of champagne-induced unsteadiness, she and Seungcheol remained on the terrace, wrapped in each other's arms and the warm Italian night.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the distant sound of someone—probably Soonyoung—attempting to sing opera in the shower.

"For what?"

"For this. For them. For making me feel like I'm exactly where I belong."

"You are exactly where you belong," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "With me. With us. For all the chaotic, champagne-fueled dance parties and ridiculous adventures to come."

♡

Later that night, after the last of their friends had stumbled to bed and the terrace had been cleared of empty champagne bottles and scattered rose petals (she suspected Jeonghan of the rose petals, though she couldn't prove it), she found herself unable to sleep despite the exhaustion from travel and excitement. The ring felt strange and wonderful on her finger, catching moonlight and making her smile every time she noticed it.

She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Seungcheol, and padded out to the terrace. The night was still and perfect, the celebration just a beautiful memory lingering in the warm air. The moon hung full and luminous above the rolling hills, painting everything in silver light that made the landscape look like something from a dream.

"Can't sleep either?" Seungcheol's voice came from behind her, and she turned to find him in the doorway, hair messy from sleep, wearing nothing but pajama pants and a soft smile.

"Too much excitement," she admitted. "My brain won't shut off."

He joined her at the railing, pulling her against his side, and she melted into his warmth. They fit together perfectly, like puzzle pieces that had finally found their match after years of searching.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked, though his tone suggested he wasn't genuinely worried.

"Never," she said immediately, then paused. "Just... processing. This morning I was just your girlfriend. Tonight I'm your fiancée. Tomorrow I'll wake up as someone who's planning a wedding. It's a lot of change."

"Good change, though?"

"The best change," she confirmed, turning to look at him properly. In the moonlight, he was devastatingly handsome—all sharp angles softened by the ethereal glow, eyes dark and warm and full of love that still took her breath away.

They stood in comfortable silence, looking out over the moonlit valley that stretched endlessly before them. The night was so clear that stars were visible despite their proximity to the town, creating a canopy of light that seemed to bless this moment, this place, this love they'd finally claimed.

"If I could give you the moon," Seungcheol said suddenly, his voice soft and reverent, "I would pluck it from the sky and place it in your hands."

She looked up at him, recognizing the reference to something she'd written years ago, in a moment of exhaustion and doubt on a different rooftop in a different life. A poem about impossible love and unreachable dreams.

"You remember that?" she whispered, her throat tight with emotion.

"I remember everything about you," he said, his hand coming up to cup her face with infinite tenderness. "Every late-night conversation, every coffee shop study session, every moment when you looked like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. I remember thinking that if I could take some of that weight, make your path even a little easier, I would do it in a heartbeat."

"You don't need to give me the moon," she said, her voice barely audible.

"No?"

"No." She turned fully in his arms, reaching up to trace the contours of his face as if committing them to memory. "You gave me something infinitely more precious. You saw me when I was too afraid to be seen. You waited for me when I needed to find my own way. You loved me enough to let me go, and loved me enough to welcome me back without question or condition."

"That sounds like basic human decency," he said with a self-deprecating smile, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"That sounds like everything," she corrected, her voice fierce with conviction. "The moon is beautiful, but it's distant. Cold. Untouchable. What you gave me is warm and real and here. What you gave me is home."

When he kissed her this time, it was soft and sweet and full of promises for all the tomorrows they were going to share. It tasted like champagne and dreams and the salt of tears neither of them was entirely successful at holding back. His hands tangled in her hair, her fingers gripped his shoulders, and for a moment the world narrowed to just this—the two of them, wrapped in moonlight and love and the absolute certainty that they were exactly where they belonged.

"I love you," he murmured against her lips, the words a prayer and a promise and a benediction all at once.

"I love you too," she replied, and meant it with every fiber of her being. "More than I thought it was possible to love another person. More than the moon and stars and all the dreams I ever dared to dream."

Behind them, the villa was quiet, their friends finally asleep after a day of celebration that would become legend in their group's mythology. Ahead of them stretched a lifetime of mornings and evenings, challenges and triumphs, ordinary moments made extraordinary by the simple fact of sharing them.

The ring on her finger caught the moonlight as she reached up to touch his face again, and she marveled at how something so small could represent something so infinite. It was a circle, unbroken and eternal, just like the love that had waited patiently for them to find their way to each other.

"Mrs. Choi," Seungcheol murmured experimentally, testing the sound of the words.

"I haven't said yes to that yet," she teased, though her heart fluttered at the thought. "I might keep my name."

"I'd love you just as much with any name," he said seriously, his thumb tracing her cheekbone with reverent care. "Though I admit I've been practicing introducing you as my wife."

"Have you now?"

"Only for the past few years," he admitted, making her laugh through the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I had to be prepared, just in case."

From inside the villa, they heard a crash followed by hushed arguing and what sounded like Mingyu's voice saying, "I told you not to put it there!"

"Should we go check on them?" she asked, though she made no move to leave the circle of his arms.

"Probably," Seungcheol sighed, though he seemed equally reluctant to break the spell of this moment. "Though I'm betting it's just Soonyoung trying to raid the kitchen for midnight snacks and running into something."

As if on cue, Soonyoung's voice drifted out: "I'm fine! Nothing broken! Well, mostly nothing! The pasta might be a little... distributed."

They looked at each other and burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the terrace and probably carrying to the neighboring villas where more sensible people were sleeping peacefully.

"Definitely chaos," she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "The absolute best kind of chaos."

"The only kind worth having," he agreed, taking her hand and leading her back inside to deal with whatever disaster their friends had created in the kitchen.

Behind them, the moon continued its ancient journey across the sky, watching over the sleeping hills and the villa full of people who had found their own ways to love and be loved. In a few hours, the sun would rise on another day in paradise, another day of their engagement, another step toward the life they were building together.

But for now, there was just this: the warmth of his hand in hers, the promise of a shared future glittering on her finger, and the certain knowledge that whatever came next, they would face it together. Not because they had to, but because they chose to. Not out of need, but out of the deepest, most abiding love either of them had ever known.

They found Soonyoung in the kitchen, sheepishly sweeping up what appeared to be the remains of an entire box of spaghetti while Mingyu stood over him with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.

"I was just trying to make a midnight snack," Soonyoung explained defensively. "How was I supposed to know the cabinet door would fall off its hinges?"

"Maybe because we told you it was loose when we arrived?" Jihoon said dryly from the doorway, where he was leaning against the frame shirtless, clearly having been woken by the commotion.

"Details," Soonyoung waved dismissively, then noticed their joined hands and the ring glinting on her finger. His expression immediately softened into something genuinely sweet. "Hey, congratulations again, you two. Really. We're all so happy for you."

"Even if we show it by destroying Italian kitchens at two in the morning?" she asked with fond amusement.

"Especially then," Soonyoung said solemnly. "It's called celebrating with enthusiasm."

"It's called being a walking disaster," Mingyu corrected, but his tone was affectionate. "Come on, let me make you something proper to eat. Can't have you starving on the night of hyung's engagement."

As Mingyu bustled around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, somehow managing to create what looked like a gourmet midnight feast from the villa's well-stocked pantry, more of their friends began to drift downstairs, drawn by the sounds and smells of impromptu cooking.

"Is this becoming a thing?" Wonwoo asked, appearing in the doorway with his hair sticking up at odd angles. "Because I'm too tired to be social, but too curious to go back to bed."

"It's becoming a thing," Jeonghan confirmed, settling at the kitchen island with the air of someone prepared to hold court. "Might as well embrace it."

Soon the kitchen was full of sleepy, shirtless and pajama-clad friends, sharing stories and leftover champagne while Mingyu orchestrated what he called "the most romantic midnight feast in Tuscan history." The conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from childhood memories to future plans, wedding ideas to travel dreams.

"So when are you thinking for the actual wedding?" Joshua asked, stealing a piece of the bruschetta Mingyu had somehow conjured from thin air.

"We literally got engaged three hours ago," she laughed. "We haven't exactly had time to plan."

"But you must have some ideas," Seungkwan pressed. "Season? Size? Theme?"

"Let them breathe," Hansol said reasonably. "They have plenty of time to figure all that out."

"Actually," Seungcheol said slowly, and something in his tone made everyone pay attention. "I might have some thoughts. If you're interested in hearing them."

She looked at him curiously. "What kind of thoughts?"

"Well," he said, suddenly looking almost shy. "I was thinking... what if we didn't wait too long? Not like, next month or anything crazy. But maybe next spring? Cherry blossom season in Seoul?"

The image hit her immediately—soft pink petals falling like snow, the city dressed in its most romantic attire, surrounded by all the people they loved most in the world.

"That sounds perfect," she said softly, and the smile that bloomed across his face was radiant.

"Really?"

"Really. Though we should probably figure out the details when we're not running on champagne and adrenaline."

"Details are overrated," Soonyoung declared, waving a piece of cheese dramatically. "Love is what matters. Love and good food and friends who support your questionable midnight kitchen adventures."

"Hear, hear," Jun agreed, raising his glass of water in a toast. "To love and questionable adventures."

"To love and questionable adventures," the group chorused, and she felt her heart swell with gratitude for these ridiculous, wonderful people who had somehow become her chosen family.

As the impromptu feast wound down and people began to drift back to their rooms—this time with promises to actually stay there until morning—she and Seungcheol lingered in the kitchen, helping Mingyu clean up the remnants of both the celebration and Soonyoung's earlier disaster.

"This is going to be our life, isn't it?" she mused, drying dishes while Seungcheol swept up the last of the scattered pasta. "Impromptu gatherings and friends who show up at all hours and beautiful chaos everywhere we go."

"Is that okay with you?" he asked, pausing in his sweeping to look at her.

She considered the question seriously, thinking about the quiet, controlled life she'd built in New York, where everything had its place and surprises were generally unwelcome. Then she looked around the warm, lived-in kitchen of their Tuscan villa, at the evidence of love and laughter and spontaneous celebration, at the man who was asking if she was okay with a life full of beautiful chaos.

"It's more than okay," she said finally. "It's everything I didn't know I wanted."

"Good," he said, setting aside the broom and crossing to where she stood. "Because I come with twelve best friends and a tendency to hyperfixate on expensive hobbies and absolutely no ability to do anything quietly or simply."

"I come with a demanding career and a need for at least seven hours of sleep and a tendency to overthink everything," she countered.

"Perfect," he said, kissing her forehead. "We'll balance each other out."

As they finally made their way back to their room, the villa settling into peaceful quiet around them

"What are you thinking about?" Seungcheol asked, noticing her silence.

"Just... this," she said, gesturing vaguely "How different everything is from what I thought I wanted."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Different perfect," she said, and meant it with every fiber of her being.

Back in their room, as they settled into bed with the moonlight still streaming through the open windows, she found herself staring at the ring on her finger, turning it slowly and watching the way it caught even the faintest light.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly. "The ring. Everything. Tonight."

"You're beautiful," he replied, pulling her closer until she was curled against his side, her head on his chest where she could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Even with my makeup completely gone and my hair looking like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket?"

"Especially then," he said seriously. "That's when you look most like yourself. Most like the person I fell in love with."

She was quiet for a moment, processing the weight of those words, the depth of love and acceptance they represented.

"I love you," she whispered into the darkness, the words carrying all the emotion she couldn't quite articulate—gratitude and wonder and the kind of bone-deep contentment she'd never experienced before.

"I love you too," he whispered back. "Always have. Always will."

As sleep finally began to claim them, wrapped in each other's arms and the soft Italian night, she thought about the journey that had brought them to this moment. All the years of friendship and longing, of missed connections and careful distance, of building separate lives that had somehow always been incomplete without each other.

She thought about the girl who had left for New York, so certain she knew what she wanted, what success looked like, what love was supposed to feel like. And she thought about the woman who had come back, older and wiser and brave enough to reach for the kind of love that transformed everything it touched.

Tomorrow would bring new adventures, new challenges, new moments of beautiful chaos with the people who mattered most. There would be wedding planning and career decisions, family dynamics and friend group politics, all the messy realities of building a life with another person.

But tonight, there was just this: the weight of the ring on her finger, the warmth of the man she loved beside her, and the absolute certainty that she was exactly where she belonged.

In the distance, she could hear the faint sound of someone—probably Soonyoung—attempting to sing himself to sleep, off-key but enthusiastic. It should have been annoying, but instead it made her smile. This was her life now. This was her family.

This was love, in all its chaotic, imperfect, absolutely perfect glory.

And as the moon continued its journey across the Tuscan sky, watching over the villa full of dreamers and lovers and friends who had become family, she finally let sleep take her, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would bring new reasons to be grateful for the beautiful mess they'd all created together.

The last thing she remembered before drifting off was Seungcheol's voice, soft and drowsy and full of love: "Sweet dreams, my fiancée."

And they were.

♡

[archivegyu]

masterlist

if i could give you the moon

part 2: i would give you the moon

choi seungcheol x reader ll 9k words

The moon hung impossibly large in the night sky, casting silver light across the cityscape below. She leaned against the rooftop railing, eyes fixed on its luminous face, finding comfort in its silent presence. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional siren created a strangely peaceful urban lullaby.

She didn’t hear the roof door open, didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until they stopped beside her. Seungcheol’s familiar presence settled next to hers, his gaze following hers upward without a word. For a moment, they simply existed together in the moonlight, two silhouettes against the vastness of the night.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: October

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves as they walked through the upscale shopping district. It was her birthday, and despite her protests, Seungcheol had insisted on taking her out for the day.

"You work too hard" he'd said when he showed up at her apartment that morning. "One day off won't kill you."

Now, as they wandered through boutiques she'd normally never set foot in, she tried to ignore the price tags that made her stomach clench. Seungcheol seemed completely at ease, occasionally picking up items and asking her opinion with genuine interest.

"What do you think of this?" he asked, holding up a soft blue scarf.

She touched it hesitantly, the cashmere impossibly soft under her fingers. "It's beautiful" she admitted, checking the price tag and quickly putting it back. "But I'm just looking."

Seungcheol nodded, seemingly letting it go. But when she turned away to examine a display of notebooks; something practical she might actually be able to affor. She didn't notice him discreetly hand the scarf to a sales associate with a quick whisper.

This pattern continued throughout the day. She'd admire something, a leather-bound planner, a pair of silver earrings, a vintage edition of her favorite book. And each time, she'd talk herself out of buying anything. Each time, Seungcheol would find a moment when she was distracted to quietly ensure the item was set aside.

At a small bookstore, she lingered over a collection of poetry she'd been wanting for months.

"You should get it" Seungcheol encouraged, watching her flip through the pages.

"Maybe another time" she said, returning it to the shelf despite the longing in her eyes. "Textbooks took up all my book budget this semester."

When she moved to the next aisle, Seungcheol quickly purchased the book, the associate slipping it into a bag that disappeared into his jacket before she returned.

By late afternoon, they'd stopped for coffee at a quiet café. She looked happier than he'd seen her in weeks, relaxed in a way she rarely allowed herself to be, even if she hadn't actually bought anything.

"Thank you for today" she said, warming her hands around her mug. "I needed this more than I realized."

"The day's not over yet, Seungcheol replied with a mysteriously satisfied smile. "But you're welcome. Happy birthday."

As the evening approached, they headed back toward her apartment. Seungcheol insisted on driving her home, though her place was easily accessible by public transportation.

"I have something for you" he said as they neared her building, pulling into a parking spot.

"Cheol, you didn't need to—"

"I wanted to" he interrupted gently, reaching into the backseat where, miraculously, a large shopping bag had appeared. "It's nothing extravagant, I promise."

She accepted the bag with suspicious eyes, peering inside. Her jaw dropped as she recognized the items; the cashmere scarf, the planner, the earrings, the poetry book, and several other things she'd admired throughout the day.

"How did you—" she looked up at him, bewildered. "I didn't see you buy any of this."

Seungcheol's smile was both mischievous and tender. "I have my ways. And before you argue about it being too much, it's already done. Consider it compensation for putting up with me all year."

She ran her fingers over the soft scarf, emotions warring inside her. Pride fighting with gratitude, independence with the rare feeling of being cared for so thoughtfully.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted.

“Thank you works" he suggested, his eyes soft in the dimming light. "Or you could just promise to wear that scarf when it gets colder."

Something in his voice made her look up, and for a moment, the air between them seemed charged with unspoken feelings.

"Thank you" she said quietly. "Not just for the gifts, but for seeing me. What I love, what I want but won't let myself have."

Seungcheol reached across the center console, taking her hand in his. "That's easy" he said simply. "Seeing you is the easiest thing in the world for me."

The moment stretched between them, teetering on the edge of something more. But then her phone rang, her mother calling to wish her happy birthday. And the moment passed, leaving behind a lingering warmth and the unshakable feeling that something had shifted between them.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

First Year: September

The lecture hall buzzed with nervous energy as students filtered in for their first class. She clutched her notebook tightly, scanning the room for an empty seat. Years of academic excellence had earned her this scholarship, and she wasn't about to waste it by being anything less than perfect.

"Is this seat taken?"

She looked up to find a tall figure gesturing to the chair beside her. Plump lips, gentle eyes that somehow managed to be both playful and serious, and an easy confidence that spoke of privilege.

"No, go ahead" she said, sliding her bag closer to make room.

"I'm Seungcheol" he offered, extending his hand. "Choi Seungcheol."

She introduced herself, shaking his hand firmly the way her father had taught her. "Nice to meet you."

"First day nerves?" he asked, unpacking his brand-new laptop that probably cost more than her entire semester's expenses.

"Just ready to get started" she answered, not wanting to admit that yes, her stomach was in knots, and she'd barely slept last night.

The professor walked in, and the room quieted. As the syllabus was distributed, she methodically wrote down every due date, every percentage breakdown of grades. Beside her, Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, seemingly relaxed but she noticed how intently he was listening, how his eyes never left the professor.

When they broke into pairs to discuss their academic goals, she hesitated before turning to him.

"So, why Business?" he asked before she could speak.

"Practical choice. Good job prospects. I want to make sure my younger siblings have options I didn't." The words came out more honest than she'd intended. "You?"

"My father runs Choi Enterprises. I'm expected to take over eventually." he said with a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

The name registered immediately. Choi Enterprises was one of the largest conglomerates in South Korea. This wasn't just any rich kid; this was heir-to-an-empire rich.

"That must be a lot of pressure" she said carefully.

Seungcheol shrugged. "It's always been the plan. What about you? What's your plan after graduation?"

"Top of my class, land a job at a multinational firm, work my way up," she recited the goals she'd set for herself years ago. "Nothing too complicated."

"Ambitious" he nodded, looking impressed. "I like that."

When class ended, she gathered her things quickly, ready to head to her part-time job at the campus coffee shop.

"Hey," Seungcheol called as she stood. "A bunch of us are grabbing lunch. Want to join?"

She glanced at her watch. "Can't. I have work."

"Work? On the first day?"

"Some of us don't have the luxury of free time," she replied, immediately regretting the sharpness in her tone.

Instead of being offended, Seungcheol just nodded. "Fair enough. Maybe next time?"

She softened slightly. "Maybe."

As she walked away, she couldn't help but think that Choi Seungcheol was nothing like she'd expected a chaebol heir to be.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

First Year: November

Two months into the semester, she found herself spending more time with Seungcheol than she'd ever anticipated. They'd fallen into a rhythm of studying together at the library, his easy-going nature balancing her intensity.

"You're going to wear a hole in that paper if you keep erasing so hard" Seungcheol commented, looking up from his economics textbook.

She sighed, dropping her pencil. "This concept isn't clicking."

"Let me see." He moved his chair closer, leaning in to look at her notes. His shoulder brushed against hers, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, no doubt, but understated.

"Here's where you're getting stuck" he said, pointing to her formula. "You're overthinking it. Look at it this way..."

As he explained, she found herself watching his hands—strong but gentle as they moved across the page, drawing diagrams that somehow made everything clearer. When she finally understood, the smile that broke across his face was triumphant, as if her success was his own.

"See? You've got this" he said, and for a moment, she believed him.

Their study session ran late, and when they finally emerged from the library, the campus was quiet, streetlights casting long shadows across the paths.

"Let me walk you home" he offered.

"I'm fine on my own" she insisted automatically.

"I know you are. But it's late, and it's on my way."

It wasn't on his way at all—his luxury apartment was in the opposite direction from her modest housing—but she was too tired to argue.

As they walked, he asked about her family, and she found herself telling him about her parents' sacrifices, about being the first in her family to attend university, about the expectations weighing on her shoulders.

"That's a lot of responsibility" he said quietly.

"It's what has to be done" she replied, the mantra she'd repeated to herself countless times.

When they reached her building, she turned to thank him.

"Hey, there's this project for Business Strategy coming up" he said suddenly. "Want to partner up?"

She hesitated. Group projects usually meant carrying someone else's weight.

"I promise I'll pull my share" he added, reading her expression. "I'm not just some rich kid coasting through."

Against her better judgment, she agreed. "Alright. But if you slack off, I won't hesitate to tell Professor Kim."

Seungcheol grinned, unfazed by her warning. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

First Year: December

Their Business Strategy project earned them the highest grade in the class, a perfect blend of her meticulous research and his innovative thinking. They celebrated at a small café near campus, sharing a plate of pastries.

"We make a good team" Seungcheol said, pushing an extra strawberry tart toward her.

She nodded, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction. "We do."

"So, winter break plans?"

"Working extra shifts" she said, mentally calculating how much she could save in the three weeks off. "You?"

"Family trip to Switzerland. Annual tradition." He said it casually, but she saw the flash of discomfort in his eyes, as if he was suddenly aware of the gulf between their lives.

"Sounds nice" she offered, trying to smooth over the moment.

"It's mostly business for my dad. Meetings disguised as skiing trips." He paused. "You should come over for dinner before I leave, though. My place. I've been practicing this pasta recipe, and I need someone to tell me if it's actually edible."

She raised an eyebrow. "You cook?"

"Don't look so surprised" he laughed. "I'm full of hidden talents."

Two days later, she found herself standing outside his apartment door, clutching a bottle of moderately priced wine that had still cost more than she'd wanted to spend. When he opened the door, wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans with an apron tied around his waist, she was struck by how different he looked outside of their university setting—more relaxed, more himself.

His apartment was exactly what she'd expected: spacious, tastefully decorated, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. What she hadn't expected was the mess in the kitchen; flour dusting the countertops, a pot boiling over on the stove, and what looked like tomato sauce splattered on the wall.

"Don't say it" he warned, rushing to turn down the heat. "I know it looks like a disaster."

She bit back a smile, setting down the wine. "Need help?"

Together, they salvaged dinner. She showed him how to save the sauce from being too acidic, and he admitted that perhaps watching YouTube tutorials wasn't quite the same as actual cooking experience. By the time they sat down to eat, the pasta was slightly overcooked, and the garlic bread was a touch too brown, but it was edible.

"Not bad for a first attempt" she conceded, taking a sip of wine.

"High praise coming from you" he teased. "But thank you for saving me from complete embarrassment."

As the evening wore on, conversation flowed easily. She told him about her younger siblings, how her brother was hoping to follow in her footsteps to university, how her sister was showing talent in art that no one in the family knew how to nurture. He shared stories of growing up under the shadow of his father's success, of the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders since before he could understand what it meant.

"Sometimes I wonder what I'd do if I had a choice" he admitted, his voice softening.

"And what would that be?"

"Music, maybe" he said, gesturing to the piano in the corner of the living room that she hadn't noticed before. "Or psychology. Understanding how people think has always fascinated me."

"You'd be good at that" she said, and meant it. Seungcheol had a way of making people feel seen, of creating space for others to be themselves.

Later, as he walked her to the bus stop despite her protests, snow began to fall lightly around them.

"Thank you for coming tonight" he said, his breath visible in the cold air.

"Thank you for dinner" she replied. "Even if I did most of the cooking."

He laughed, the sound warm against the winter quiet. "Next time, I'll do better."

"Next time" she echoed, and realized she was looking forward to it.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: March

Spring semester brought new classes, new challenges, and a growing circle of friends that revolved around Seungcheol. She'd been gradually introduced to his other friends; twelve guys who formed a tight-knit group but welcomed her with surprising warmth.

Jeonghan, with his angelic face and devilish sense of humor, had initially been skeptical of her, watching her interactions with Seungcheol with knowing eyes. Joshua, gentle and thoughtful, had been the first to make her feel truly included, asking about her studies with genuine interest. Junhui's quiet kindness, Soonyoung's boundless energy, Wonwoo's sharp wit, Jihoon's musical genius, Seokmin's sunshine personality, Mingyu's clumsy charm, Minghao's artistic sensibility, Seungkwan's dramatic flair, Vernon's laid-back attitude, and Chan's youthful enthusiasm—each of them brought something unique to the group.

Today, they were gathered at Seungcheol's apartment, ostensibly to study but mostly to distract each other.

"I still don't understand why we can't just order food" Mingyu was saying as he chopped vegetables in the kitchen. "I always end up cooking anyway."

"Because you love it and you're good at it" Seungcheol replied, passing him salt.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by textbooks and notes, trying to focus amid the chaos. Jihoon sat nearby, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever composition he was working on. Wonwoo was immersed in a game, while Jeonghan and Joshua debated something in hushed tones.

"You know, you're allowed to take breaks" Seungcheol said, sitting down beside her with two mugs of tea.

"I have a midterm on Monday" she reminded him, accepting the tea nonetheless.

"So does everyone else. But they're not killing themselves over it."

She bristled slightly. "Not everyone has as much at stake."

Seungcheol opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Soonyoung launching into an animated story about his dance instructor. The moment passed, but she felt his eyes on her, concerned and thoughtful.

Later, when most of the others had drifted off to various corners of the apartment, Seungcheol nudged her gently.

"Come on, I want to show you something."

Curious despite herself, she followed him to the building's rooftop. The night air was cool, the city lights spread out before them like stars fallen to earth.

"I come here when everything gets too loud" he said, leaning against the railing. "Thought you might need it too."

She stood beside him, exhaling slowly. "It's beautiful."

"You know, you work harder than anyone I know" he said after a moment. "But sometimes I wonder if you remember to actually live while you're working so hard for your future."

"That's a luxury I can't afford" she said simply.

"It's not about luxury" he insisted. "It's about balance. Even my father, who works insane hours, makes time for the things that matter."

She didn't respond, unsure how to explain that balance was a privilege of those who had safety nets.

"My parents want to meet you, by the way" he said, changing the subject.

She turned to him, surprised. "Why?"

"Because I talk about you all the time, and they're curious about the person who keeps beating me in every class" he smiled. "Just dinner. Nothing formal."

"I don't know, Cheol..."

"Please? They're not scary, I promise."

Against her better judgment, she found herself agreeing.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: April

The Choi family home was intimidating in its understated elegance; a modern mansion in one of Seoul's most exclusive neighborhoods. She'd worn her best dress, simple and black, but still felt underdressed as a housekeeper led her through the marbled entryway.

Seungcheol was waiting for her, looking unusually formal in a button-up shirt. "You came" he said, relief evident in his voice.

"I said I would" she replied, trying to keep her nerves from showing.

Mrs. Choi appeared first, a graceful woman with kind eyes that reminded her of Seungcheol's. "So lovely to finally meet you" she said, taking her hands warmly. "Seungcheol speaks very highly of you."

Mr. Choi was more imposing; tall and distinguished, with an air of authority that commanded attention. But when he smiled, she saw where Seungcheol got his warmth. "The mysterious study partner who keeps our son on his toes" he said, shaking her hand. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Dinner was served in a dining room that could have comfortably seated twenty, but they kept to one end of the table, creating a sense of intimacy. She was surprised by how easily conversation flowed, how genuinely interested the Chois seemed in her studies, her background, her aspirations.

"Seungcheol tells us you're at the top of your class" Mr. Choi said, sounding impressed. "On scholarship, no less."

"I've been fortunate to have good opportunities" she said modestly.

"Opportunity means nothing without the talent and drive to seize it" Mrs. Choi countered. "Don't diminish your achievements, dear."

As the evening progressed, she found herself relaxing, even laughing at Mr. Choi's surprisingly dry sense of humor. When Seungcheol excused himself to take a phone call, Mrs. Choi leaned in slightly.

"You know, you're the first of Seungcheol's friends he's ever asked to bring home" she said thoughtfully.

"Oh, we're just classmates" she clarified quickly. "We study well together."

Mrs. Choi's smile was knowing. "Of course. Still, it says something that he values your opinion enough to want you to meet us."

Later, as Seungcheol walked her to the car his parents had insisted on sending her home in, she felt strangely conflicted.

"They like you" he said, looking pleased. "I knew they would."

"They're different from what I expected" she admitted.

"Different good or different bad?"

"Different good. They're... real people." She winced at how that sounded. "I mean—"

"No, I get it" he laughed. "They're not the cold business tycoons people assume. They work hard, but family matters to them. Values matter." He paused. "You matter to them now, too. Once you're with my parents, there's no escaping."

She didn't know why that thought made her heart beat faster.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: Summer

Summer brought an unexpected opportunity—an internship at a prestigious firm that could set her up perfectly for post-graduation employment. The only problem was the cost of living closer to the city center where the firm was located; her part-time job wouldn't cover the higher rent for those three months.

When she mentioned the dilemma while studying with Seungcheol, he immediately offered a solution.

"Stay at my place" he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I'm leaving for Jeju to help with my father's new resort development, so the apartment will be empty anyway."

"I can't just take your apartment, Cheol."

"Why not? It's sitting there unused, with a perfectly convenient commute to your internship. It makes logical sense."

She hesitated, pride warring with practicality. "I'd pay rent."

"You absolutely will not" he said firmly. "Consider it an investment in your future success, which will make me look good by association."

"Seungcheol—"

"Please? It would actually help me out. Someone should be there to water my plants and make sure the place doesn't get robbed."

In the end, logic won out, though she insisted on at least covering utilities. When Seungcheol gave her the keys before leaving for Jeju, there was something unreadable in his eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing" he said, closing her fingers around the keys. "Just take care of yourself, not just my plants."

Living in Seungcheol's apartment was a strange experience. Everything was comfortable, convenient, designed for ease. She found herself working later at the internship than required, partly out of dedication and partly to avoid becoming too accustomed to the luxury that wasn't hers.

Mingyu and Wonwoo checked in on her occasionally, bringing food and company. Junhui brought books he thought she'd enjoy. Jihoon, surprisingly, became a regular visitor, often working on his music while she prepared reports for her internship, the silence between them comfortable.

One night, as they shared takeout after both working late, Jihoon looked up from his noodles. "You know he's in love with you, right?"

She nearly choked. "Who?"

Jihoon gave her a flat look. "Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you."

"Seungcheol and I are friends" she said firmly. "Good friends."

"Sure" Jihoon shrugged, returning to his food. "But just so you know, he doesn't lend this place to just anyone. I've known him since high school, and you're the first person he's ever given keys to."

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she changed the subject. But later, alone in Seungcheol's guest room, she found herself staring at the ceiling, thinking about his easy smile, his unwavering support, the way he seemed to see her—really see her—in a way no one else did.

It was a dangerous line of thought, one she couldn't afford to entertain.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Third Year: November

The third year brought mounting pressure; harder classes, preparation for thesis proposals, the looming reality of job hunting. She and Seungcheol remained close, though their different schedules meant they saw each other less frequently. When they did, it was usually in group settings with the others or during late-night study sessions in the library.

Tonight was rare; just the two of them, working on separate thesis outlines in his apartment. Rain lashed against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere despite the stress of their work.

Jihoon, Mingyu, and Jeonghan had been there earlier, working on their own projects, but had left hours ago, leaving them alone with their thoughts and the sound of keyboards clicking.

"I think my brain is officially fried" Seungcheol announced, pushing back from his laptop. "Want some ramyeon?"

She glanced up, blinking as her eyes adjusted to looking at something other than her screen. "Sure."

In the kitchen, she watched as he moved efficiently, preparing their late-night snack. There was a comfortable domesticity to it, one that made her chest tighten with a feeling she refused to name.

"My father asked about you yesterday" he said casually as he waited for the water to boil.

"Oh?"

"He's impressed with your internship performance. Apparently, his friend at the firm couldn't stop singing your praises."

She felt a flush of pride. "I didn't realize they knew each other."

"Seoul's business world is smaller than you think" Seungcheol said, pouring the hot water into their bowls. "Actually, he mentioned they might have a position opening up after graduation. Said you'd be a perfect fit."

She froze, ramyeon halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"It's just an option" he said quickly. "No pressure. But it's a good company, great benefits, room for advancement—"

"Did you ask him to do this?" Her voice was suddenly cold.

Seungcheol looked genuinely surprised. "What? No. He brought it up on his own."

"Really? Your father just happened to mention a job opportunity at his friend's company, for me specifically?"

"Yes" he frowned. "What's the problem?"

She set down her chopsticks. "The problem is I don't need your family pulling strings for me. I can get a job on my own merits."

"No one's saying you can't" he countered. "It's just networking. Everyone does it."

"Everyone who has connections" she shot back. "Some of us have to work for everything we get."

Seungcheol's expression hardened. "And you think I don't work? That everything just falls into my lap because of my last name?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant" he said, voice rising slightly. "You've always thought that, haven't you? Poor Seungcheol, born with a silver spoon, never had to struggle a day in his life."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? You've built this whole identity around being the scholarship kid who does everything herself. You're so afraid of accepting help that you don't even see when people are just trying to care about you."

The words hit too close to home, igniting a defensive anger. "I don't need anyone to care about me. I'm doing fine on my own."

"Are you?" he challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're working yourself to exhaustion, pushing away anyone who tries to get close, all because you're terrified of admitting you might actually need someone."

"What I need" she said, standing abruptly, "is to not be your charity case. I'm not some project for you to fix, Seungcheol. I'm not here to make you feel good about yourself for helping the poor scholarship student."

His face went pale, then flushed with anger. "Is that really what you think of me? After three years?"

The hurt in his eyes made her want to take back her words, but pride kept her silent.

"I have never," he said, voice low and controlled, "seen you as a charity case. I thought we were friends. I thought—" he stopped, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. If that's what you think of me, maybe we don't know each other at all."

She gathered her things in tense silence, shoving papers into her bag without caring if they crumpled. When she reached the door, she paused, knowing she should apologize but not knowing how.

"Let me call you a car at least" he said stiffly. "It's pouring out there."

"I'll take the bus" she replied, and left before he could argue.

The rain soaked her within seconds, but she barely noticed, her mind replaying their argument on loop. By the time she reached her apartment, she was drenched and shivering, but the cold emptiness inside her had nothing to do with the weather.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Third Year: December

Three weeks passed without a word between them—the longest they'd gone without speaking since they met. She threw herself into her thesis preparation, taking extra shifts at work to avoid her thoughts. Her phone remained silent; even the group chat with the others had gone quiet for her.

One evening, as she was closing up the coffee shop, she looked up to find Jeonghan waiting at the counter.

"We need to talk" he said simply.

They sat at a corner table, her still in her apron, him elegant as always in a camel coat.

"He's miserable" Jeonghan said without preamble. "And from the looks of it, so are you."

She stared at her hands. "It's complicated."

"It's really not" Jeonghan countered. "You both said things you didn't mean, and you're both too stubborn to apologize first."

"He told you what happened?"

"He didn't have to. We've all been watching this dance for three years now." Jeonghan's expression softened. "Look, I get it. Pride is a hard thing to swallow. But is it worth losing him over?"

"I don't want to lose him" she admitted quietly.

"Then do something about it" Jeonghan said, standing. "And for what it's worth, none of us, especially not Seungcheol, have ever seen you as anything less than what you are: brilliant, determined, and incredibly frustrating."

After Jeonghan left, she sat alone in the darkened coffee shop, thinking about Seungcheol. How he'd never once made her feel less than, how he'd always believed in her abilities, how he'd created space for her in his life without question.

The next morning, she found herself standing outside his apartment, heart pounding. When he opened the door, he looked as bad as she felt; dark circles under his eyes, hair uncombed, wearing a hoodie she recognized as one of his comfort clothes.

"Can I come in?" she asked softly.

He stepped aside wordlessly.

Inside, they stood awkwardly in his living room, the silence heavy between them.

"I'm sorry" she finally said. "What I said was unfair and untrue. You've never made me feel like a charity case. That was my own insecurity talking."

Seungcheol's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have pushed about the job thing. I know how important your independence is to you."

"It's not just about independence" she tried to explain. "It's about feeling like I've earned my place. Like I belong in those rooms on my own merit."

"You do belong" he said firmly. "More than most people I know. But accepting help doesn't diminish that." He paused. "I'm not trying to make your path easier because I think you can't handle it. I offer because I care about you, and that's what people do when they care. They try to make each other's lives better."

The simple honesty of his words broke something open inside her. "I'm not very good at letting people care about me" she admitted.

"I've noticed" he said, a ghost of his usual smile appearing. "But I'm pretty persistent."

"That you are" she agreed, feeling the tension between them begin to dissolve.

"So, friends again?" he asked, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes that made her heart ache.

"Friends" she confirmed, trying to ignore the voice inside her that whispered it wasn't enough.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Fourth Year: February

Senior year was flying by too quickly, the future looming large on the horizon. She and Seungcheol had settled back into their friendship, though something had shifted subtly between them; a new awareness, moments of silence that stretched a beat too long, touches that lingered.

Tonight, they were on the rooftop of his building again, bundled against the winter cold, celebrating the completion of their thesis drafts with a bottle of wine.

"To never having to look at my thesis again," Seungcheol toasted, clinking his glass against hers.

"Until next week when we get feedback and have to revise everything" she reminded him, but she was smiling.

"Always the optimist" he teased.

They fell into companionable silence, watching the city lights below them.

"Have you heard back from any of the places you applied?" he asked after a while.

"Not yet" she said, trying to keep the worry from her voice. "You?"

"I start at the company in July" he said. "After graduation and a brief vacation.” 

"That's great, Cheol," she said, genuinely happy for him despite the twist of anxiety in her own stomach about her uncertain future.

"It is" he agreed, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "It's what I've been working toward."

"But?"

He shrugged. "No 'but.' It's the right move. The responsible choice."

She studied his profile, illuminated by the distant city lights. "Does it make you happy?"

"Happiness isn't always the point" he said quietly. "Sometimes it's about doing what needs to be done."

Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a platitude. Coming from Seungcheol, who carried the weight of his family name with such grace, it was a confession.

"I think" she said carefully, "that you'll find a way to make it your own. You always do."

He turned to look at her then, his eyes searching hers for something she wasn't sure she was ready to give. "What about you? What makes you happy?"

The question caught her off guard. She'd spent so long focusing on survival, on achievement, on making something of herself, that happiness had always seemed like a distant luxury.

"I don't know" she answered honestly. "I haven't thought about it much."

"Think about it now" he urged gently.

She closed her eyes, letting herself imagine for once. "Stability," she said finally. "Knowing my family is taken care of. Work that matters. People who understand me." She opened her eyes to find him still watching her. "Freedom to choose my own path."

"That sounds like a good life," he said softly.

"It does," she agreed. "What about you? If you could choose anything?"

"This," he said simply. "Moments like this. Being with people who see me as me, not as the Choi heir. Making my own decisions. Music, maybe. A life that feels authentic."

His honesty made her brave. "And us? Where do we fit in those futures?"

The question hung between them, loaded with unspoken feelings. Seungcheol reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch feather-light.

"I don't know" he admitted. "But I know I want you in mine. However that looks."

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed. Reluctantly, she checked it—an email notification that made her heart stop.

"What is it?" Seungcheol asked, noticing her expression.

"A job offer" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. "In New York. The international firm I applied to, they want me."

Seungcheol's face went through a rapid series of emotions before settling on a proud smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's amazing. When would you start?"

"August" she said, still processing. "They want an answer within the week."

"You're going to take it, right?" he asked, voice carefully neutral. "It's what you've been working for."

It was everything she'd dreamed of—a prestigious firm, international experience, a salary that would let her help her family. But suddenly, the thought of leaving Seoul—leaving Seungcheol—made the victory taste bittersweet.

"I need to think about it" she said, and they both knew it was a lie. There was no decision to make. This was her path, the one she'd sacrificed for, the one that would validate all her hard work.

"Of course" Seungcheol said, raising his glass again. "To new beginnings."

She echoed the toast, but as they drank in silence, the space between them seemed to grow, filled with things they weren't ready to say.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Fourth Year: May

Graduation day dawned bright and clear, the campus transformed by decorations and proud families. She stood among her classmates in her cap and gown, scanning the crowd for her parents and siblings, who had saved for months to make the trip.

She spotted Seungcheol with his parents near the front, looking handsome and official in his regalia. They hadn't spoken much in the weeks since she accepted the New York position, both busy with final exams and preparations for the future. But they'd maintained their friendship, carefully avoiding any mention of her imminent departure.

When her name was called, she walked across the stage with her head held high, accepting her diploma with the knowledge that she had earned every bit of this moment. As she shook the dean's hand, she heard cheers from the audience; her family, but also a distinct group that could only be Seungcheol and the others, who had become her second family over these four years.

As she moved the tassel on her cap, she caught Seungcheol's eye in the crowd. He smiled at her, proud and pained all at once, and something inside her chest constricted. This was what she had worked for; her ticket to a better life, a chance to make her mark on the world. Why, then, did victory feel so hollow?

After the ceremony, amid the chaos of families taking photos and classmates saying tearful goodbyes, she found herself pulled into an embrace by Mrs. Choi.

"We are so proud of you" the elegant woman said, holding her at arm's length. "Such an accomplishment."

Mr. Choi nodded in agreement, his usually stern face softened with genuine warmth. "Seungcheol tells us you're headed to New York. An excellent opportunity."

"Yes" she confirmed, "I start in August."

"Seoul's loss is New York’s gain," Mrs. Choi said with a meaningful glance toward her son, who was talking with her parents a few feet away. "But I suspect you'll do remarkable things wherever you go."

Before she could respond, Seungcheol approached, bringing her family with him. There were introductions, handshakes, her mother looking slightly overwhelmed but pleased as she chatted with Mrs. Choi. Her younger siblings stared in awe at Seungcheol, who treated them with the same easy respect he showed everyone.

"We're having a small celebration at our home this evening" Mr. Choi announced. "For Seungcheol and his friends. You and your family are welcome to join us."

Her mother started to decline, she knew they had planned to take the evening train back home to save on hotel costs, but Seungcheol interrupted gently.

"Please" he said, addressing her parents directly. "It would mean a lot to me. To all of us. We've made arrangements for your accommodations, and transportation back tomorrow."

She opened her mouth to object, pride rising automatically, but caught herself. This wasn't charity; this was friendship. After four years, she was finally learning the difference.

"We'd be honored" her father said, and the matter was settled.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

The Choi residence was transformed for the evening, the formal spaces made warm and inviting with soft lighting and flowers. The celebration was more intimate than she had expected—just the fourteen of them, their families, and a few close friends of the Chois.

She watched as Seungcheol moved through the room, the perfect host, making sure everyone was comfortable. He had a gift for making people feel at ease, regardless of background or status. Her father, initially stiff and uncomfortable in the opulent surroundings, was now laughing at something Joshua's dad had said. Her mother was deep in conversation with Jihoon's parents about music education, while her siblings had been thoroughly adopted by Seokmin and Soonyoung, who were teaching them some ridiculous dance moves in the corner.

"He gets it from his mother" a voice said beside her, and she turned to find Mr. Choi offering her a glass of champagne.

"Sorry?"

"Seungcheol. The way he brings people together" Mr. Choi clarified, nodding toward his son. "His mother has always had that gift. I'm more like you—focused on goals, sometimes at the expense of connections."

She accepted the champagne, surprised by his candor. "I wouldn't have guessed that about you."

Mr. Choi smiled slightly. "I've learned over the years. Thanks in large part to her." He glanced fondly at his wife across the room. "The right people in our lives have a way of making us better versions of ourselves."

Before she could respond to this unexpectedly personal insight, Mingyu appeared, dragging her away to settle a debate with Wonwoo about the best street food in Seoul. The evening continued, warm and joyful, a perfect culmination of their university years.

Later, as the party began to wind down, she found herself on the terrace, taking a moment of quiet amid the celebrations. The night air was cool but pleasant, the garden below illuminated softly by strategically placed lights.

"Hiding?" Seungcheol's voice came from behind her.

"Just catching my breath," she replied as he joined her at the railing. "It's been quite a day."

"One for the books" he agreed, loosening his tie slightly. "Your family seems to be enjoying themselves."

"They are. Thank you for including them."

"They're important to you" he said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did.

They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the party muted behind them, the city spread out before them like a constellation of earthbound stars.

"New York" he said finally, the word heavy with everything they hadn't been saying. "When do you leave?"

"Three weeks" she answered, her voice smaller than she intended. "I need to find an apartment, get settled before orientation."

Seungcheol nodded, his profile stoic in the dim light. "You're going to be amazing there. They're lucky to have you."

"What about you?" she asked, needing to change the subject. "Ready to be the new face of Choi Enterprises?"

A smile flickered across his face. "Not exactly the new face. More like the behind-the-scenes guy implementing changes while my father continues to be the public figure."

"Changes?"

"I've been thinking about what you said months ago, about making it my own." His eyes met hers, serious and determined. "I want to shift some of our priorities. Focus more on sustainable practices, ethical sourcing. Maybe expand our scholarship program."

Pride bloomed in her chest. "That sounds like something you would do."

"It's something you inspired" he corrected gently. "You've always pushed me to be more than just my father's son."

The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten. Four years of friendship, of challenges and growth, of becoming adults together—it all seemed to crystallize in this moment.

"I'm going to miss you" she admitted, the words barely audible.

Seungcheol turned to her fully then, his eyes searching hers. "I've been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks" he began, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his gaze. "Actually, years, if I'm honest."

Her heart stuttered in her chest, knowing what was coming and terrified of it.

"I'm in love with you" he said simply. "I have been since that first study session when you corrected my accounting formula and told me I needed to pay more attention to details."

A small laugh escaped her, half-surprised, half-pained. "That was four years ago."

"I know" he smiled ruefully. "I'm not telling you this to complicate things or make you feel guilty about New York. I just couldn't let you leave without being honest. I respect your choices, your independence. I always have."

"Cheol—" she started, but he shook his head.

"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that someone sees you—all of you, the strength and the vulnerability, the ambition and the fear. And loves you for it."

The words she'd been holding back for so long rose to her lips, but before she could speak, the glass door to the terrace slid open, and Seungkwan appeared.

"There you are! We're about to do toasts, and Jeonghan says we can't start without you two."

The moment shattered, Seungcheol stepped back, the confession hanging unresolved between them. They rejoined the party, where champagne flowed and emotional speeches were made. Through it all, his words echoed in her mind, both a gift and a complication.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Three Months Later: August

New York was everything and nothing like she had imagined. The city's energy matched her own drive, the constant movement and ambition a perfect reflection of her internal landscape. Her apartment was small but functional, her job challenging and rewarding. On paper, everything was exactly as she had planned.

But in the quiet moments—late at night when the city's pulse slowed, or early mornings when the light slanted just so through her window—she found herself thinking of Seoul, of thirteen boys who had become family, of one in particular whose confession she had never properly answered.

They kept in touch, sort of. Group texts with the others, occasional video calls where they carefully maintained the friendship they'd always had, neither mentioning the words spoken on the terrace. She saw snippets of his life through social media—Seungcheol at business functions, Seungcheol implementing new company initiatives, Seungcheol with the others on weekend trips. He looked good, successful, exactly where he was meant to be.

Tonight, she found herself on her tiny balcony, staring up at the narrow strip of sky visible between buildings. The moon was bright, a perfect silver disc that seemed to follow her across oceans and continents.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jihoon, a rare direct message from the most reserved of the group.

*You're both idiots, you know that?*

She blinked at the bluntness of it.

*Hello to you too, Jihoon.*

*He's miserable. You're probably miserable too, knowing you.*

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. *We're both where we need to be.*

*Need and want are different things. Figure it out.*

The conversation ended there, typical Jihoon—direct, uncompromising, and unfortunately insightful.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. The truth was, she was doing well professionally but personally... personally, she felt adrift. She'd achieved her goal, proved herself capable and worthy, secured her family's future. But something was missing, and she was finally honest enough with herself to name it.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with an email notification. A follow-up from her boss about a project she was leading—an expansion into the Asian market, specifically South Korea. They needed someone with local knowledge, language skills, and connections. Someone exactly like her.

She stared at the screen, heart racing with sudden possibility. It wasn't a solution, not yet, but it was a door opening where before there had been only walls.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Six Months Later: February

Seoul in winter was exactly as she remembered it; crisp, vibrant, familiar in a way that settled something inside her. She pulled her coat tighter as she walked through the business district, the cashmere scarf, his gift from years ago, wound around her neck.

The Choi Enterprises building loomed ahead, modern and imposing against the skyline. She had informed her team she would handle this meeting personally, citing her familiarity with Korean business culture. She hadn't mentioned her familiarity with the company's leadership.

At reception, she stated her name and appointment, the Korean flowing easily from her lips after months of practice to maintain her fluency. The receptionist directed her to the elevators, instructing her to go to the 42nd floor, executive offices.

Her heart pounded as the elevator ascended. She hadn't told him she was coming. Hadn't told any of them, afraid she might lose her nerve if she did. The doors opened to a sleek reception area where another assistant greeted her.

"He's expecting you" the woman said with a smile, leading her down a hallway to double doors at the end.

She took a deep breath as the assistant knocked once, then opened the door.

"Your 10 o'clock is here, Mr. Choi."

She stepped into the office; spacious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the city. Seungcheol stood behind his desk, reviewing documents, his back to the door.

"Thank you, I—" he began as he turned, the words dying on his lips when he saw her.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, taking in the changes six months had wrought. He looked different; more mature, his hair styled differently, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that made him look every inch the business leader he had become. But his eyes, his eyes were the same, warm and deep and suddenly wide with shock.

"Hi" she said softly, when she could find her voice.

"What are you—" he stopped, glancing at his assistant who was watching with undisguised curiosity. "Thank you, Min-ah. That will be all for now."

When the door closed behind her, silence descended, heavy with unasked questions.

"I'm here on business," she explained, stepping further into the room. "My company is looking to expand into the Korean market. I'm leading the project."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You're representing them."

She nodded. "They thought my connections might be helpful."

"Your connections" he repeated, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "And you chose Choi Enterprises as your first meeting."

"It seemed logical" she said, maintaining the professional facade, though her racing heart betrayed her. "Your company has a strong digital presence, innovative ideas. We're looking for a partner with vision."

Seungcheol moved around his desk, closing some of the distance between them. "Very logical. How long are you in Seoul?"

"Two weeks, to start. Longer if the partnerships develop well."

"And after that?" he asked, the question loaded with meaning.

She took a deep breath. "That depends on what we find here."

Their eyes held, the pretense of a purely business conversation slipping away.

"I never answered you" she said quietly. "That night on the terrace."

"You didn't need to" he replied. "Your path was clear."

"My path has led me back here" she countered, taking a step toward him. "Maybe that means something."

Seungcheol's expression softened, hope cautiously emerging. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I've accomplished what I set out to do. I've proven myself, secured my future, helped my family. I'm saying that I'm proud of who I've become, and that includes being someone who can finally admit what she wants." She took another step closer. "I'm saying that I love you too. I have for a long time."

The distance between them vanished as Seungcheol closed the gap, one hand coming up to cup her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch.

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice low. "Because I don't want you to ever feel like you've compromised your independence for me."

"Loving you isn't a compromise" she said firmly. "It took me a while to understand that accepting love isn't the same as accepting charity. You were right—it's what people do when they care."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise, bright and full of promise. "I've missed you" he whispered, forehead touching hers. "Every day."

"I've missed you too," she admitted, her hands coming to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm. "More than I allowed myself to acknowledge."

When he kissed her, it felt like coming home.

It’s like finding something she hadn't known she was missing until this moment. It was gentle at first, a question and an answer all at once, then deepening with the weight of feelings long held back.

A knock at the door forced them apart, and Seungcheol cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," his assistant called through the door, "but your father is asking if you'd like to join him for lunch with your visitor to discuss the potential partnership."

Seungcheol looked at her, eyebrows raised in question. She nodded, a smile playing at her lips.

"Tell him we'll be there" he called back, and then more quietly to her, "My parents are going to be insufferable when they see you. My mother has been asking about you for months."

"They knew how you felt?"

"Everyone knew" he laughed. "Apparently, I wasn't subtle."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a message from the group chat she shared with all thirteen of them. She pulled it out to find a text from Jeonghan:

Tell him we expect both of you at dinner tonight. No excuses.

She looked up at Seungcheol, confused. "Did you tell them I was here?"

He leaned over to see the message and laughed. "No, but Jeonghan has an uncanny sixth sense. And possibly spies in my building."

Another text came through, this one from Jihoon: Told you so.

"What does that mean?" Seungcheol asked.

She smiled, putting her phone away. "It means he was right. We were both idiots."

Seungcheol took her hand, interlacing their fingers as if they'd been doing it for years. "Not anymore" he said softly. "Now we're just two people who took the long way home."

As they walked out of his office together, she thought about the journey that had brought her here; the scholarship girl determined to make it on her own, the walls she'd built around her heart, the gradual realization that true strength wasn't about standing alone but about choosing who to stand with.

Outside, the winter sun broke through the clouds, casting long shadows across the snow-covered city. In the distance, the Han River flowed steadily, unchanging and ever-changing all at once. Like the moon that had watched over both of them from different corners of the world, bearing silent witness to their separate paths that had, against all odds, converged once more.

She squeezed Seungcheol's hand, feeling him squeeze back without hesitation, and knew with certainty that this—this was what coming home felt like.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Just like the moon, I'll pull you back again

I'm always going to be who I've been  

But I'm not afraid to admit I'm wrong

When I know I'm right where I belong

- moon song, phoebe bridgers

[thirtyskeletons]

Any day now

[thirtyskeletons]

people have suddenly started reblogging this post of mine from february 8th, 2012. great bit everybody

[thirtyskeletons]

[silverwingxox]

born to marry him, forced to read fanfics about him